


Ibid.

by lyrisey



Category: Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Genre: Anxiety, Clones, Emotional Hurt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:40:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 22
Words: 31,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21624679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyrisey/pseuds/lyrisey
Summary: Taylor gets a haircut and makes some new friends.
Comments: 55
Kudos: 135





	1. Star Light

Sophia was on top of me, her weight and leverage pinning me down on the bathroom floor.

"Do you have it?"

Laughter. "Yeah."

Out of the corner of my eye I can see Madison, ever the helper, pulling something out of her backpack and passing it over to Emma; she turns it over in her hands, flicks a switch and there's the rattling buzz of one of those barbershop hair trimmers and her eyes meet mine and she _smiles_ as I start to struggle against Sophia's hold.

"Hold _still_ , Taylor, unless you want to look like a _spaz_."

Bubbly laughter, ringing off the stalls. "Maybe she _does ohmygod-_ "

Emma kneels down next to me, her fingertips brushing my cheek in a soft caress before she mashes her palm against my face, grinding me down into the tiles that reek of disinfectant and mildew and a hint of stale shit as I squeeze my eyes shut-

-and then I can feel it stutter on my skin, _chewing_ at my hair, the crappy motor starting to slow and stall out as it runs into something more than beard stubble-

- _I'm dying_ -

-and then Sophia's pulling her weight off me with an annoyed grunt, leaving me there on the cold, tacky floor.

"You okay?"

"...slipped. You done?"

"Yeah, for now."

Feet. I'm staring at their feet, _Emma's_ feet as she stands over me.

"You don't want to do the whole thing?"

"Nah. She'd look like she had cancer, and that might get someone feeling _sorry_ for her."

_My- my head-_

It feels wrong. It feels _cold_ and _raw_ and one of my hands comes up to touch and someone plucks at my wrist as I feel stubble and hairtuft and almost-bare skin.

"No, sweetie, you can't cover up. Madison's not done taking pictures."

"Nah, it's cool. She can't hide it all anyways."

The camera flashes red through my eyelids.

"Such a cutie." Emma's voice is syrupy. "I'll be sure to leave some photos for your mom."

I don't- I _can't_ say anything, frozen up half-curled on the floor, eyes closed, hand pressed down over pinprickle-tufted hair like I'm putting pressure on a wound.

* * *

They were finally gone.

They were _gone_ and I was staring at myself in one of the scratched bathroom mirrors and all I could hear inside my head was the sound of myself screaming _I can't, I can't,_ over and over.

Emma had blazed a swath from the top of my head down to behind my left ear, the curve of shadowed skin still shockingly pale against the fall of my dark hair.

 _There's no way I can hide this._ I try anyways, combing at my hair with my fingers, trying to part my hair a little more on the right so I can cover-

It doesn't work; my hands are shaking and tears are stinging my eyes and the hair wants to fall in the way it usually does and Emma blazed a fucking _highway_ across my scalp it's so wide I can't hide this _I can't fuck-_

* * *

And then the hurt is gone. My eyes are clear and the tension is gone from my chest like a watch that's unwound itself in one smooth burst.

 _I'm free_.

I'm not in my body, but _behind_ it; I'm standing there in the bathroom, staring at my back as I cry in front of the mirror.

Without thinking, I reach out to touch my shoulder with an arm I don't remember, my hand and sleeve and the charm bracelet on my wrist strangely familiar as my fingers make contact-

I see her eyes in the mirror, hollow and red behind her tear-spattered glasses as she sees me and _recoils_ faster than I can react, flinching away from my touch and backing away from me, and when she does-

I can see myself in the mirror, and for a moment, I can't breathe again.

Because I'm Emma Barnes, down to the clothes on her back and the hair on her head and the look in her eye, sad and sympathetic and more honest than I've seen her since starting at Winslow.

And that's when the bathroom door opens.


	2. Star Bright

Emma looked at me, and her expression made my heart ache; the sympathy in her face was raw, untainted by faux sincerity or that trenchant bite that I'd come to expect.

I froze, back against the wall, staring at Emma as Madison's dark-haired head poked into the bathroom; she stared at the two of us, her gaze flicking between Emma and I in surprise, then blooming into epicaric delight.

"E...mma. I was just going to..." She hesitated. "What are you doing?"

Emma looked at me for a moment...and gave me a conspiratorial wink that was so familiar it _hurt_.

_It's not- she's not-_

And then she turned to Madison, still hovering there in the half-open doorway.

"Oh, just catching up on a few things with our _little lamb_ here." She looked back at me, her bright smile fading as she took in my expression. "You know, the whole 'nobody's going to believe you if you say it was us, everyone knows you did it for the attention.'

Even through my shock, I could feel my cheeks warm at her words.

Madison snickered. "Niiiiice," she drawled, reaching into her bag and pulling out her phone. "Hey, I wanted to get some more pictures, now that she's up-"

"Not right now, Maddy." Emma didn't look back at Madison as she spoke. "I'm busy, and you're going to lose your chance to sit next to Kevin Henderson and make cow eyes at him if you don't scat for class."

Madison looked at her phone and scowled. "Aw, fine," she said with a petulant sniff, stuffing her phone back in her bag as she backed out of the doorway, calling out "You two have fun, okay?"

Emma and I stood there, watching each other until the bathroom door closed behind the other girl. She opened her mouth. Closed it, a slight frown on her face.

"So... I don't know how to explain this-" She cut herself off, glancing back at the door, then leaning in towards me.

"I- you- I think we're a cape, because I'm you, even though I look like Emma."

I stared at her. "Emma..."

She smiled a little, hesitant, awkward, unsure, and the numb shock that had filled my mind began to knit and warm into a flare of anger.

"What the _fuck_." The venom in my voice surprised, and part of me was _so glad_ when her eyes widened in shock. "Trying to- to- what, convince me, _gaslight_ me into thinking I'm a cape?"

_I shouldn't be doing this. I shouldn't let her bait me like this._

She started to say something, but the words kept spilling out of me. "I don't even know what your game is- are you going to _verbally abuse_ me in, into, thinking I can fly?"

She looked _hurt_ , and the anger and the numbness coalesced into a sort of sick ache inside me.

"Just... just..." I looked down at her feet so I wouldn't have to see her face. "Just... fuck it. Fuck _you_."

I brushed past her, heading for the bathroom door, heading for _escape_ as I heard her footsteps behind me.

Emma intercepted me before I could get out of the bathroom, grabbing my shoulder and shoving me against the closed door as she leaned in.

" _Listen,_ " she said quietly, her voice harsh and tight; I struggled, and she tightened her grip, trembling fingers pressing into my arm. "God, just- I- you had chicken casserole for dinner last night. I ran out of paprika and didn't have a good substitute; dad didn't notice and I-you still wish he had."

I froze, and she kept talking.

"I-you... we? We're reading _The Beekeeper's Apprentice_ , and we- we got to the part where Mary gets introduced to Inspector Lestrade before we went to bed."

I twisted in her grip, looking back at her, and she stared at me, her eyes sober and anxious, her mouth pinched in as she bit at her lip in a way that was familiar to me because I'd watched myself do it so many times in the mirror.

Something must have changed in my eyes, because Em- Tay- the other Taylor, the other _me_ , smiled hesitantly.

"You have to believe me," she said. "Because we need to figure out what we're going to do."


	3. First Star I See Tonight

I watched as I- me- the one of me who wasn't Emma- slowly nodded, her brown eyes intent on mine.

"Okay," she said. "What're you thinking?"

There's a smile on my lips already, and it just gets wider. "I say we book it for home, usual route. That gives us until Dad gets home to figure out what's... what I am." I wink at her again. "Unless you have any better ideas."

She blinks, looking at me owlishly through her glasses "...aren't you... me?"

I laugh and nod as I pull her away from the door. "And you have the _best_ ideas, believe me."

Taylor-me doesn't look very convinced as I tug the hood on her sweatshirt over her head- _god-_ and pull her out into the hallway.

Everyone's in class, the halls are empty, and I'm sneaking out of school so I can play hooky with _myself_. This is _awesome_. Myself doesn't seem to feel the same way, though; I have to lead her by the nose like a lead balloon six days after the birthday party, steering her past classroom doors with tugs on her sweatshirt sleeve, her feet falling with mine in time to the slow beating of my heart.

She locks up as we pass an open door, and I almost sweep the poor thing off her feet to get her out of sight.

"T-that was-"

"Mmm!" I nod briskly, pulling her along like I'm leading her in Winslow hallway tango. "Yeah, I- uh- _she_ has a presenta-come _on-_ tation this period."

"B-but you... she... I thought you were-"

"Emma?" I have to stifle a laugh - they're bad for sneaking. "God, I'm so glad I just _look_ like the bitch. C'mon, less talking, more walking."

* * *

We had to slow down once we were a block or two away, partly to avoid attracting attention, mostly because Taylor-me had apparently done _way_ less cardio than I had and needed to catch her breath.

I mean, _I_ hadn't done any cardio that I knew of. Yeah, I had loosey-goosey queen bitch energy, but was that from Emma, or was that... _me?_

Taylor kept looking over at me as we walked, hands shoved in the pockets of her sweatshirt.

"Do you know what she's planning?" she finally asked.

I shook my head, lifting one finger up and tapping my temple. "I'm..." I hesitated, glancing over my shoulder. "I know what you know?"

She glanced back behind us as well. "But- the- with Madison, you said-"

"Ohmygod _stop that,_ you look so _suspicious_ ," I hissed, looking around to see if anyone had noticed. "I just... knew what to say to get her off my back; like, I knew the words, but I didn't know what they meant until I _said_ them."

"...oh."

I leaned over and dropped an arm over her shoulder like she was a draft ox and affection was my yoke. "Hey. For what it's worth...? I _totally_ know how you feel." Her shoulders shook as she coughed a laugh, and I couldn't help but smile.

We walked like that for maybe a block before my arm started to ache and we had to split off; her footfalls still fell with mine, in time to the beat of my heart.

"So."

"So," I echoed, glancing over at her.

She smiled, looking a little sheepish. "What's. Um. What's it like, being... her?"

"Emma? It's... enh." I make a face. "I feel like me, until I see a reflection or my hands, and then..." I shake my head. "It feels weird if I think about it too much."

"...sorry."

I snort. "No. _No_. To _hell_ with that. It's not your- it's not _my_ fault, this happened because that _she-bitch_ -"

Something touches my hand and I look down; Taylor's fingers are wrapped around a fist I hadn't realized I was making. I look up and her eyes meet mine and she lets go like she was scalded.

I take a breath. Look down at the passing sidewalk, staring at my designer jeans and flashy kicks as pavement passes underneath us and somehow still feeling so alone.

I look up again and Taylor's looking right back at me and I don't understand the look on her face until I find myself making it.

I hold my hand out.

She takes it.

And my heart skips a beat.


	4. I Wish I May

_There's someone holding my hand._

_There's someone holding my hand, and if I look over I'll see_ **_her_ ** _._

 _I'll see her and feel my heart race because_ **_Emma Barnes_ ** _is holding my hand._

_But there's no saccharine in her eyes, no razor under her tongue, just her fingers tight around mine and my twice-shy smile on her lips._

_And it finally hits me. She's me. She's_ **_happy_ ** _._

_I can see it in the light in her eyes, how the world opens up around her smile and stride._

_Emma-me pulls me along in her wake like her unsightly little shadow, frog-mouthed and spider-armed and stick-legged; she looks back at me and smiles my smile, and I can't help but smile back at her._

* * *

I'm sitting on the edge of my bed, hugging myself as I stare at the floor.

_She's gone._

"Please," I whisper.

I draw in a breath. Hold it.

And I try again, feeling the muscles in my neck and jaw ache as I try _again_ , feeling my temples pound like throbbing bass in the key of _please._

She still isn't here, and my fingernails bite at my palms and my arms tremble tighter and I have to stop, I have to _breathe-_

* * *

_We're only a few blocks from home when she stumbles on flat sidewalk, her hand tightening on mine as she catches herself._

_She looks back at me, sweat beading on her forehead, cheeks paling._

_She's not smiling anymore._

* * *

-and air surges out of me, my body heaving for breath.

She's not here and I'm _alone_ and it hurts worse than the pounding in my head, biting down in my throat because this is my _power_ , I should be able to use it-

* * *

_"I'm sorry."_

_We're sitting on a bus stop bench; Emma-me's looking down at the sidewalk, holding my hand, fingers tightening until my knuckles grate against each other._

_Her gaze flicks up to meet mine. She smiles, but it's the smile I use when I'm telling Dad everything's okay._

_"I thought we'd have more time- I thought we'd be_ **_home_ ** _by now-_ **_no,_ ** _it's not your fault." She puts her other hand atop ours. Squeezes gently._

_"Just... listen. Whatever I am, it's got a duration, and I can tell mine's running out. Feels like my heart's stopping."_

_I squeeze her hand and she smiles._

_"Don't worry. It doesn't... hurt, really, it just feels weird."_

_Her throat works as she swallows._

_"So... I'm- I'm gonna go soon. Really soon. And- and-"_

_She looks at me, intent, intense._

_"I... I think we're going to be-"_

* * *

I start to try again, tears welling in my eyes from frustration, cramping pain radiating through my neck into my head.

"Please." The words come out with effort. "Please come back."

Wet trickles down my cheeks, tears spilling out as I force my eyes closed, trying-

I try focusing on Emma-me, my hand in hers, smiling with her; but my head hurts too much to keep things straight and it's Emma in the school bathroom, her hand on my cheek and a razor at my hair and a smile on her face that gleefully proclaimed _I see what you are-_

-and I open my eyes and Emma's sitting on the floor, one hand on my knee as she looks up at me.

She smiles up at me and I smile down at her and she rises and leans in, arms closing around me for a hug; I lean into her, palms pressing to her back, tears dampening her shoulder as I let out a sob because I miss being _held-_

"Where did you _go_?" I whisper, not trusting my throat for anything louder, and she tightens her arms around me.

"I don't know," she says quietly. "I remember being you, on the bench, watching her disappear."


	5. I Wish I Might

"I don't know. I remember being you, on the bench, watching her disappear."

The words spool out of me and the me who's still Taylor pulls back, her hands at my shoulders as she looks into me with tear-reddened eyes.

"But that... that means..." She hesitates, and I can see realization bloom. "That means you-"

I don't let her say it. "Hey. _Hey._ "

"I'm _sorry._ " Her voice is a scratchy whisper, old and worn.

"No." My fingers find the down-softness at the nape of her neck, squeeze, gentle and firm. " _No._ "

 _I am the difference, here and before_. I'm the reason why she isn't still curled up on the bathroom floor. I'm the reason why she's not going to hate herself now.

"It's not your fault," I say, and her gaze meets mine. "It's _hers,_ " I add, and we both know who I mean.

She's about to say something when we both hear it: Keys, jingling, then the distinctive rasp as the front door opens.

 _Dad_.

We both look at the alarm clock by my bed, and Taylor moans softly when she sees the time.

We've been up here for _hours_.

"Taylor?" His voice comes faintly through the door. We hear footsteps, and I can see him in my mind's eye, looking around the dark living room, slowly walking towards the stairs up to my bedroom.

I look back at her; the color's drained from her face, and my eyes are drawn to the stubble-shadowed pale streak across her scalp.

Her eyes close and her hands clench into fists on my shoulders; she shakes her head, trembling.

"I can't," she whispers. "I _can't_."

I shush her and it comes out as a poisonous hiss, my fingers tightening against the back of her neck.

"You _have_ to," I whisper back. "You need to do this, because _I can't_. Not with... how I look." _How I look like the girl who's been my own personal hell._

Fingers tense on my shoulders as she half-shakes her head. "I- I don't-"

She can't get the words out, but I know them already. _I don't know what to tell him._

"Tell him the _truth_ ," I hiss, hearing the house creak as Dad starts up the stairs. "Tell him about Emma, tell him about school."

"What-" she starts, and I shake my head, pulling her with me as I stand.

"Don't. Not about us."

"But..."

"He wouldn't understand. _We_ don't understand. He'd just be..." _Useless,_ part of me supplies. "...lost," I finish.

She sniffs. Nods, her lips thinning into a firm line, and I pull her into a quick, tight hug before pushing her at the door.

"Go. _Go_ ," I whisper, dropping to the floor behind the bed.

Over the pounding of my own heart, I can hear her footsteps as she meets Dad on the stairs.

* * *

I can hear them talking downstairs; at least, I can hear _Dad_ talking, the tones of his voice audible even upstairs.

Even then, I can still tell the flow of the conversation from how he sounds: incomprehension, sadness, shock.

He's angry now, _ranting_ almost; I can imagine his face, livid, cherry-red as the other half of me sits there like a stone under the waterfall of his words, clenched tight and numb-

And I am suddenly, blindingly _furious_ as I lie here on my bedroom floor, fists clenched aching-tight as I listen to my father drown his impotence and empathy in rage.

 _I should be down there. I shouldn't have to be alone through this_.

And I want to. God, I want to just- just _storm_ down those stairs and pull myself into a hug and tell Dad _this isn't helping_.

I want to. But I can't, because I look like fucking _Emma Barnes_ and my going downstairs would...

...I'm not sure I want to give my dad a target for his anger.

* * *

She comes back upstairs a half-hour later, and I pull her into my arms as soon as she closes the door, feeling the tension in her back muscles.

"We're going to see Blackwell tomorrow." Her voice is quiet, her eyes dry, and I know that look, because I've tucked my feelings away like that so many times before.

I don't say anything, just rubbing her back until I feel her start to relax and she leans against me, letting out a breath.

"You did good."

I can feel the words crack her composure, her breath hitching as she leans into me.

"I'm proud of you," I whisper, feeling like all I can offer is useless praise as she starts to cry against me.


	6. Have This Wish I Wish Tonight

Taylor's downstairs with Dad, eating dinner, and I'm upstairs in my- _our_ room.

And there's nothing I can do. The anger inside me hasn't left; it's transmuted into something electric, sparking down my bones and leaving my legs jittering and fingernails picking at my cuticles.

I look around the room from where I'm sitting on the bed; at the desk covered with old homework, the clothes heaped on the floor from where I missed the hamper, the shelves of books that I've buried myself in over and over again, and a realization hits me:

_Nothing here is mine anymore._

Clothes I'll never wear again. Homework I'll never learn from, books it doesn't make sense for me to read in the next hour because _I'll be gone_.

I'm just _sitting here_ in another girl's room. I'm waiting to _die_ , and there's _nothing I can do_.

It was better when I was with Taylor, when I was with someone who _understood_. When I could just focus on her problems and not think about myself.

But she's downstairs, eating dinner with Dad, and I can imagine their awkward silence in my head and _I don't want her to be alone and there's nothing I can do about it._

I had to go. I had to get out of here before I did something impulsive and stupid.

I slid across my bed, leaned over, and opened my bedroom window as quietly as I could; cool night air flowed in over my hands and brushed my face, and I drew in a breath of air that tasted faintly of salt.

_Something to do before I go, though_.

I padded back over to the desk, took a pen, tore off a piece of paper, and I wrote. Reviewed what I'd written. Added another line or two.

_There._

Folding the note, I left it on the bed; I dropped a copy of _In The Garden of Iden_ on top of it so a breeze wouldn't blow it away.

And then, before I had time to doubt myself, I was scrambling out the window and jumping clear of the house.

The landing was harder than I expected; I felt a twinge in my ankle before my feet slipped out from under me and my butt slammed into the lawn. I hissed, gritting my teeth as pain rebounded through my body.

_Quiet. Gotta... quiet._

It took a few seconds for my body to unlock; I scrambled to my feet, listening for voices, for movement from inside the house.

Nothing. I looked back up at my open bedroom window.

_Damn. Left the light on_.

I breathed in, and started to walk down the street.

* * *

It was only two blocks before I had to give into the energy filling me and just _run_ through the cool night, footfalls echoing off the pavement, streetlights passing by and the dark houses behind them.

I ran until the twinge in my ankle started to spike into something more penetrating, then walked, savoring the ache in my legs and hips.

It was better than thinking.

* * *

Headlights flared as a car turned onto the street ahead of me, and I sped up to a jog until I could turn onto a side-street.

About a block later, the suburban procession opened into a park, wide and dark with half-lit trees and greenery.

My chest twinged and I winced, dropping down onto a park bench and pressing knuckles to my sternum.

_Getting to be time, I guess?_ I slumped down, letting my head fall back so I could look up at the stars through tree branches.

"Hey." I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. "Hey, Mom. Guess we're here at the end of all things, huh?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters 1-6 draw their titles from the nursery rhyme _Star Light, Star Bright._


	7. My Candle Burns At Both Ends

I wasn't sure what had happened when I came into my room and found the window open, curtains blowing in the night breeze.

The note Emma- my _copy_ had left on my bed didn't provide much in the way of clarity, either:

> _Hey, T!_
> 
> _Getting a little stir-crazy here doing nothing; itching in my thumbs and all that. Going to go out for a walk - don't know when I'll be back._
> 
> _Or if I'll be back._
> 
> _Look, you're going to be OK. I know how strong you can be, remember?_
> 
> _Love, you. ;)_

It was in Emma's handwriting, and as I sat on the edge of my bed and read it, re-read it, I felt something twist in my chest.

"You didn't have to _run_ ," I whispered to the open window.

There was no answer.

* * *

I stared out the car window as Dad drove us to Winslow, building after building passing by under the weight of an overcast morning sky.

 _She didn't come back_.

I'd left the window open all night- I'd stayed up most of the night, well after her life- her _duration_ would have ended, waiting for any hint of her coming back.

She'd been here for me, but... had I really been here for her?

 _"I'm proud of you_ , _"_ she'd whispered to me last night, her hands cool on my temples as she'd brushed hair from my brow and tears from my eyes.

The words had meant something to her.

I wasn't sure I deserved them.

"Everything okay?"

I look over; Dad's driving, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

"'m okay. Just... tired." I hesitate. "I. I didn't sleep that great."

He mumbles something I can't quite hear, and I look back at the dashboard, pulling the hood of my sweatshirt a little further over my head.

"Taylor?"

"Mmm?" I look up; he's taken his eyes off the road to glance over at me. He smiles at me, small and sad, and then he looks back at the road.

"I'm sorry about last night."

I stare down at my hands in my lap, mouth wordless and a little sickly-still.

"I... got angry." He's quiet, the car shifting as we make a turn. "Not at you, but about what happened to you."

And I remember last night, our meal in stilted silence; my eyes finding his, following his gaze as it brushes over my half-shorn scalp and his face darkens with aubergine rage.

* * *

We arrived maybe a half-hour after school started, footfalls hollow in the empty hallways as Dad and I headed for the principal's office.

"Danny Hebert. My daughter and I have an eight forty-five appointment with Principal Blackwell?"

* * *

Eight forty-five comes and eight forty-five goes; Dad and I are still sitting in the waiting area, watching the receptionist handle calls and paperwork while yellowed posters older than I am preach tolerance and scholarship from up on the walls.

I'm scraping at my cuticles with a fingernail when a broad hand falls atop mine; startled, I look up and Dad's looking down at me with a gentle smile before he leans down to whisper in my ear.

"It'll be okay. She's just stalling to make it look like she has the upper hand. It's an old trick I've used a bunch when 'negotiating.'"

He pulls away a little, and winks at me. "Can't serve the bastards carbonara," he observes, and a shy smile tugs at the corner of my mouth.

* * *

"Mr. Hebert." Principal Blackwell was congenial and fatigued; more the latter than the former, despite the early hour. "If this is about your daughter's attendance yesterday, you know you can leave a note with my receptionist and we'll take it under advisement-"

"We're- ah, we're not here about that." Dad looked over at me. "Taylor?"

I swallowed. Reached up and pulled back the hood of my sweatshirt, shucked the beanie I was wearing underneath that. Squirmed under the weight of their respective scrutinies, fingernails picking against each other.

"Can I ask why you left campus," she finally asked, "rather than going to one of your teachers, or even to me?"

I heard my dad's chair creak. "Someone assaults my daughter, and _that's_ the first thing you decide to ask?"

Blackwell was very still, both hands on her desk as she watched my dad.

"Mr. Hebert, I have to deal with students who are assaulted, or threatened, or _worse_ , practically every day of the school year. In order to better care for the children who are my legal responsibility, I need to understand why this wasn't brought to my attention sooner."

And then all eyes are back on me and I feel something inside me _flex_ in that butterflies-under-glass feeling I remember from last night; I look down at my hands, nerveless and white, nails digging red moons into my skin as they pinion something wordless and inexplicable inside me.

"I didn't think you'd do anything about it." The words come out dry and small, withered leaves before fall's first rain.

"Ms. Hebert." She leaned across her desk. "I can assure you, that we _will_ take your report serio-"

"Bull."

"Excuse me?"

Dad's leaning forward again, knuckles white-and-red on the arms of his chair like well-marbled steak.

"You _just_ said that you have to deal with _worse_ than what Taylor had to go through, _every day_. You'll 'take her seriously' and take her report, and you're going to let it get buried under discipline reports more _important_ than 'my daughter got a bad haircut.'"

Silence filled the office.

"That is _unacceptable_ , Principal Blackwell."

"Mr. Hebert, I want to assure you that..."

She trailed off as Dad stood up from his chair and _leaned_ over her desk, one hand mashed flat on her papers for balance.

I didn't catch what he said; his voice was pitched low and personal, with enough of an edge of _threat_ to make my gut twist. I heard _unions_ , and _solidarity_ , and then he was quiet as the two of them stared at each other.

And then he sat back down.

And Principal Blackwell looked at me.

"Taylor... who did this to you?"

* * *

There's five minutes of silence after the call goes out on the PA; they show up all at once, a clutch of sharp eyes and smirks quirked in nervous mouths when they see me with my hood off.

"I've called you three in today because Miss Hebert has been harassed, and has named the three of you as the ones responsible.

It's been made clear to all members of the student body that bullying and harassment will not be tolerated; this _will_ be investigated and the individuals responsible _will_ be punished.

Is there anything you three have to say for yourselves?"

Madison and Sophia share a glance, and then Emma steps forward, hands clasped in front of her, innocent as an Immaculata student.

"Taylor..." She hesitates, bites her lip as soft, watery-blue eyes search my expression. "...this is all my fault. I'm _sorry_."

The office was silent.

"Miss Barnes? Are you..."

Emma turned to Blackwell. "I-I should have said something earlier in, before it had gotten this _bad_ , but I didn't know she'd- she'd-"

She cuts herself off as she looks at me, at my _hair_. "...do that."

"Are you implying Miss Hebert did this to _herself?_ "

And Emma _nodded_ , fingers wringing themselves into white-knuckled little knots.

"I just didn't know what to _do_ , her mom was gone, and I just- I _tried_ to be there for her, but she just kept - it was like she was pulling me under and _I didn't want to end up like her_." She sniffed, sounding like she was on the verge of tears.

"I had to stop being friends with her. I _had_ to, and when... when I told her that-"

Emma looked back at me, swallowed nervously, then looked back at the principal.

"She started getting _mean_. St-she started coming after me, after my friends, accusing me of harassing her-"

"That's because you w-" I start, before the principal cuts me off again.

"Miss Hebert, _you will get your turn._ You never brought this to anyone's attention, Miss Barnes? Why not?"

"She's still my _friend_ , Principal Blackwell. If I told a teacher, she'd just get punished."

"N- _no_." The word bubbles thickly from my lips. "She's- _she's_ the one who's been... been..."

I trail off as I realize how I sound, plaintive and whining and vulnerable and Emma's right there, her eyes the pure blue of springwater, her brow furrowed in compassion as she listens to me.

"Search her locker. Search _their_ lockers, they've probably got the, the clippers in there from yesterday."

I can see the principal bite back a sigh as she looks over at Dad... and she _hesitates._

"All right." She pushes her chair back, moving to stand up.

"Principal Blackwell?"

"Miss Barnes, I am _not_ in the mood-"

"No, it's not that." She hesitates, her fingers knotted and twisting. "It's just- wouldn't it be fair to have _everyone's_ locker searched, Taylor too?"

A muscle bulges in Blackwell's jaw as her eyes slide from Emma to my dad... and then to me, and she nods slowly as she studies my expression.

And as we go out, Emma smiles, sweet and secret like when we were children hiding from our parents... and something _twists_ inside me, a seed of tension rooting itself down in my gut.

* * *

They're all... _complacent_. Unruffled as the six of us walk hallways filled with the echoes of our footfalls, first to Madison's locker, then Emma's. Watching as they spin combinations and tug doors open, finding nothing but posters and binders and school supplies.

And that unease inside me grows with each step, until I'm staring at _my_ locker and feeling everyone's eyes on me.

"Well, Miss Hebert?"

The lock is new, still stiff from when I'd bought it last week; I have to enter the combination twice with nerveless fingers before pulling the shackle and twisting it free.

Blackwell steps in, pulls open the locker door-

And it's there, Emma's razor, perched right on top of my social studies textbook, a tuft of my hair still caught in cheap snaggleslide saw-teeth.

_No._

Emma's mouth is a silent opening of shock, even as her eyes sparkle with the delight of a prank-well-played, and Dad...

Dad's looking at me, and the look in his eyes has none of that conspiratorial warmth we had while we were waiting to see the principal.

The look in his eyes says _doubt._

The look in his eyes says, quiet and distant, _maybe my daughter needs help._

The linoleum of the hallway is sudden and cold against my cheek, but the hand on my shoulder is warm.

"Emma Barnes, you wipe that fucking _smile_ off your face."

It's Emma, _my_ Emma, her hand on my shoulder and her voice in my ear, and I can feel her in my mind, burning above me like a star.


	8. It Will Not Last The Night

"Emma Barnes, you wipe that fucking _smile_ off your face."

My Emma's hand on my shoulder, her voice in my ear; I lift my eyes and she's half-kneeling next to me, her face upturned and her hair like a beacon in the light from the far hallway.

My hand finds hers, fingers slipping and intertwining, and she looks down at me with that smile that twists in my insides, sweet and secret and filled with relief as she squeezes my shoulder -

And she _rises_ , ball of foot and lifted knee and all the poise of childhood's dance lessons, sharp and bright and her cheeks burning red as she stares daggers at herself.

"I mean, it's not like you _planned_ this, _Emmaroid_."

Emma's cheeks pale, lips parted as she stares herself down; she flinches a step back, and _my_ Emma takes a step closer like she wants to get some blood on her dance card.

"You just thought, 'Oh, let's leave it in her locker so our little lost _lamb_ can have a _surprise_ waiting for her tomorrow.'"

She lifts a finger like a dart, and I watch as it pins into Emma's skin right below the hollow of her throat.

Nobody moves.

" _Surprise_ , coppertop. You got what you wanted."

Motion draws my eye from the drama-in-diptych, down to where Sophia's on the floor on hands-and-knees, slowly drawing herself up into a sprinter's crouch.

Her eyes are on me, and the set of her face carries shock and fear that hardens into a snarl of almost-animal hate-

And her face is all I can see as she _lunges_ into me, body colliding with mine and our arms and legs a tangle of puppet limbs as we roll and slide on the smooth, cold floor.

Sophia throws aside my warding arms and strikes at my face; I jerk backwards, hitting my head against the floor as my vision dissolves into static and purple stars and all I can hear is her harsh breathing as she clambers on top of me, teeth bared.

And through the disorientation, the shock, one thing stays with me: that little star-sense of my Emma in my mind, beaconing, beckoning bright, promising something _safe._

Something _flexes_ inside me, and that sense of my Emma's star trembles, _flares_ -

And the weight is gone from my chest and I'm off the floor, up on my feet next to Emma as we stare at Sophia Hess going to town on me, her fists sounding wet and dull as she hits me, again and again and _again_ -

Only I'm not me, not anymore, and I don't even have to look down at my hands to know _I'm_ Emma Barnes now, and I can feel her star flickering, guttering under where Sophia sits astride _Taylor._

I don't know what's happened, but it doesn't look like anyone's noticed as we all stare at Sophia and I- and _Taylor,_ frozen in snapshot tableau.

And Dad moves, takes a step towards the two of them, starts to take another, only I see the muscles in his back tense as he brings his weight to bear and accelerates a steel-toed shoe into her side. There's a dull sound of impact and the sound of something popping and cracking and Sophia goes tumbling off the other me, sprawling onto the floor.

Dad steps over my body, face flushed red and fists knotted tight as he stares down at Sophia, her mouth a soundless 'oh' as she struggles to breathe.

"You stay the _hell_ away from my little girl." The words drip from his mouth like pitch, thick and bitter and something down inside me _flinches_ because I don't think I've ever heard Dad so ready to hurt someone.

Sophia stares up at him, eyes sharp with pain; her body shudders and she coughs, deep and racking, the sound explosive and echoing against the bare walls.

And then she's gone: desaturated, translucent, _sinking through the floor_ until she vanishes from sight.

* * *

"Mr. Hebert."

Sophia is gone and I'm still Emma and Dad is bent unhearing over my-copy-who-looks-like-Taylor, handkerchief dabbing at the blood on her face. He's looking down at her, a hand cradling her head and a tenderness in his eyes that makes me wish I could switch places with myself again.

Principal Blackwell hesitates, takes a cautious step forward, reaches out with a trembling hand to brush fingers against his shoulder, pulling away when he looks up at her with eyes that smolder with knowledge and anger.

"There's a first-aid kit in my office. Can you carry her there?"

He stares into her eyes. Looks down at his Taylor.

"We're calling the PRT."

And all she can do is nod.

* * *

We make an odd procession: Blackwell leading the way like an icebreaker, Emma and Madison flocking close to her, Dad coming along behind with my copy in his arms.

Me?

I'm the tag-along on the edge of the herd, small and cometary and somehow _cold_.

Dad won't let me get close; I'd come over to see how my other self was, but he just looked at me with cold eyes.

"I don't think you're good for Taylor right now."

That's all he says before he looks down at her, dismissing Emma and I and everything else in the world, with the exception of _his_ little girl.

So I follow in superfluous orbit, my head spinning in a mess of revolution.

_I'm Taylor._

_But Taylor is in Dad's arms._

_I'm Taylor and I'm somehow Emma and_ **_I don't know what happens next._ **

I can feel my heartbeat, a fast and thready soldier's-march behind my ears.

God, I wish I could talk to me.

* * *

"Donna, I need the crisis binder."

I closed the door to the school hallway behind me as Blackwell spoke with her receptionist, reaching for the office phone. Emma and Madison had claimed one corner of the waiting area; Emma stared at me with flinty eyes.

We'd seen neither hide nor phantom hair of Sophia.

The 'crisis binder' was a thick three-ringed thing, flagged in primary colors. Principal Blackwell tucked the phone receiver between shoulder and ear as she dialed, then started paging through the binder.

"This is Principal Blackwell at Winslow High School; I'm calling to report a parahuman assault on a student."

She paused on a page, spun the binder so Donna could see it and pointed at an entry. Her assistant looked down� then looked up at her, surprise in the arch of her eyebrows, to which Blackwell just scowled and stabbed her finger down at the binder again.

Donna blanched... and finally nodded, turning in her chair to face the PA console and keying the switch for the intercom.

"Faculty and students: the Winslow campus is now under lockdown. Teachers, lock your classroom doors. Students, shelter in place; do not use school hallways until an all-clear announcement is made by an administrator."

I could still hear Blackwell on the phone. "Yes. No. No, not at present. Yes, Wards support would be _emphatically_ appreciated."

She looked over at Dad, still carrying the other me.

"You should take her in my office - the door locks from the inside."

Dad looked at her, slowly nodded. He pushed off the wall he'd been leaning against, carrying Taylor back into Blackwell's office.

I silently followed them in, closing her office door and locking it behind me. When I turned around, he'd already arranged her in Blackwell's desk chair and had turned to face me, one hand flexing and reflexively bunching into a fist.

Which was when Taylor grabbed his wrist and he froze.

"Dad." Her voice was choked, thick. I heard the gurgling-drain sound of something clotted being cleared from her airway. "She's okay."

He looked back down at her; I couldn't see his expression, but I saw the hurt in her eyes.

"...trust me."

He looked back at me finally, his eyes hard.

"Go find that first-aid kit. Make yourself useful."

* * *

I found the first-aid kit in Blackwell's bathroom, a thick orange-and-black bundle that I carried back into her office.

Dad was still bent over the other-me in Blackwell's chair, looking stooped and worn and somehow older than I'd ever remembered seeing him-

And the other me was slumped against that executive backrest, face pale, sweat beading on her face, one hand pressed to her chest.

I looked at that star-sense of her that I had in my head, felt how it flickered in long, rolling licks of corona like a candle's last gasp.

 _I didn't think it was going to be this_ **_soon._ **

I looked at her and something sickly twisted inside me as I realized I felt... _relieved_.

Because I wasn't _her_.

Because I wasn't _the copy_.

"Taylor?" Dad leaned in, dropping to one knee. "Taylor, what's _wrong?_ "

And the other me smiled- tried to smile, blood red on the gaps between her teeth.

"Dad." She swallowed. "Love you."

"Little owl." His voice was choked, husky as he leaned in, folding his arms around his little girl-

-and as his arms closed around her, I watched her _deform_ , crushing in his embrace like a piñata that's been left out to soak in the morning dew.

I heard her breathing rattle to a stop as he pulled away, his arms pulling through her and leaving wet-seaweed streamers of skin and muscle waving gently in the air between the two of them, already starting to fuzz and fray and decohere into nothing as he looks into her shock-wide eyes, watches her lips work silently-

-and all I can do is _watch_ as my dad reaches out, a thin animal keening forcing its way from his throat as he watches me tear apart in front of him-

There's a whistling hiss and a thwack, the two sounds almost simultaneous as a carbon-black shaft erupts from the back of his shirt and he slowly topples into Taylor, tearing her apart like wet tissue paper.

I half-turn before I hear that sound again and feel something _jab_ in my back like a pinched muscle.

And as my body stops working, as I crumple to the cheap office carpet, I see Sophia Hess, bandanna tied over her mouth and nose, crossbow pointed down at me.

And then I see nothing at all.


	9. But Ah, My Foes

She sat in a bare room, at a bare table, fingers wrapped around the scalding-dry warmth of a paper cup of coffee.

"Interview with Eileen Blackwell, regarding the events on October 8th, 2010." The armored man's voice was crisp, dry; each word reeled off with the cadent efficiency of long practice.

She watched steam rise from her cup, breathed in, smelling steam and tannins provided by the lowest bidder. Exhaled.

"Why don't we start at the beginning. Daniel Hebert had contacted your office that morning?"

"That's... yes, that's correct. I didn't take the call- that was Donna, my assistant- but she let me know she was penciling in a meeting with a parent."

"Did you know why Mr. Hebert had scheduled the meeting?"

"Not..." She hesitated. "Not until they were in my office. I mean- I'd, I try to prepare for these things, look at student records and get a feel for how things are supposed to go."

"And how did you think this meeting was supposed to go?"

Her coffee was still too hot to drink, and she'd forgotten creamer.

"I thought it was going to be... I don't know, a run-of-the-mill attendance issue. She'd left school grounds in the middle of the day; I wasn't sure if she was cutting school and her father found out."

"Had Ms. Hebert cut school on previous occasions?"

"Not from what I'd seen in our attendance log, no..."

"...but you had suspicions."

"Her academics were... not encouraging. Declining grades, less motivation to engage in classwork. That's usually the start of a pattern that leads to truancy, disciplinary issues, yes."

"That wasn't why Mr. Hebert wanted to meet with you, though."

She shook her head. "No. It turns out someone had... pulled a prank on his daughter."

"Taylor Hebert."

She nodded. "...yes, that's correct," she added after a moment.

"Could you describe this... prank?"

Her mouth twisted. "It looked like sh- like someone had cut a portion of her hair down to her scalp."

"And this was the reason Mr Hebert and his daughter had come to see you."

"Once she took her hat off, yes, it made sense."

"It made sense how?"

"It... look. Interacting with students, with their parents, it... you start to notice patterns. A father's little girl gets bullied, property gets damaged, and then they show up in your office expecting their crisis to take priority over everything on your plate." She paused. "I imagine you run into something similar in your day-to-day."

"You're required to triage. Prioritize."

"Exactly, yes."

"What happened next?"

"There's a disciplinary process we try to follow for incidents like these. Interview witnesses, determine what actually happened... really, the same thing we're doing here."

"That you 'tried' to follow?"

She breathed out, a short, sharp huff. "Hell, as it turns out, hath no fury like a type-A parent seeking justice for their child."

"You're referring to Mr. Hebert."

"Yes. He... didn't take well... to hearing that the situation wouldn't be immediately resolved to his satisfaction."

"What was his response?"

"He... was aggressive. Threatening... not violent, but..."

"He made threats?"

"He threatened to go to the teacher's union. Do something, force a strike... it sounds ludicrous now, but there was a _look_ in his eye..." She trailed off.

"Did his behavior strike you as out of place or unusual?"

"...not initially, no. He struck me as someone going to bat for their kid. You know, the 'my daughter, right or wrong' mindset... but looking back on it now? After what happened? I have to wonder if there was something going on."

"So, Mr. Hebert promised action. Consequences."

Her mouth twisted again. "That's a polite way to put it; he put me on the spot. So I asked Ms. Hebert who had done this... and she told me."

"The other three girls. Emma Barnes, Madison Clements. Sophia Hess."

"Yes. I had Donna call them into my office."

"What was your plan, once you'd brought the other girls in?"

She huffed a breath. "Honestly, I just wanted to give him what he _wanted_. Bring in the other girls, let it turn into a 'he said, she said'/'both sides' thing, let him see how ambiguous teenage squabbles can actually be.

"I-It wasn't the best move, I'll admit. Hess, Barnes, the other girl? They're _good kids_. Even Sophia; she's had discipline issues in the past, but she's improved so much recently; she's made friends in her peer group, her grades and participation scores have gone up, she's been controlling herself better when other students get confrontational."

There was a long pause.

"They didn't deserve this."

* * *

She was warm, and it was dark.

It was an undemanding dark, and an easy warmth: the sitting-upon-the-edge-of-oblivion _-so-_ coziness that comes of returning to your bed when the world fails to demand your presence.

She'd. She'd done a good thing. She'd _-so-_ done the _right_ thing, she _-phia-_ was sure of that.

_-sophia-_

She drifted in the maundering dark. Thought, sensation, time; these all blended, drawing her into gentle-receding warmth-

_-stalker-_

She opened her eyes, stared into light. Closed them again, the dark warm and red.

"Stalker. Shadow Stalker."

They were words. And she knew the words, knew the speaker. _Millie_.

"That's right, Shadow Stalker. It's Miss Militia."

Her eyes opened again. Stared into a blazing white expanse that dulled and focused into fluorescent fixtures and pinhole ceiling tile, a beige negative of the night sky.

She found color, intensity amidst the banal. White and red and blue, over mottled foliage-green and under seaglass-green eyes that looked into hers with a peculiar softness.

"You're back at the PRT now. You're safe. We got your call and we came for you."

Her lips parted. Worked for a moment. "Ems?"

"Emma? The girl who was with you? She's okay, she wasn't hurt."

She smiled at that.

"Stalker, I know you're hurt. You're on painkillers, and we're going to take care of you... but if you can, I need you to walk me through what happened today."

 _Debriefing._ That seemed like something she could do, sure. That was a pretty Shadow Stalker-y thing to do, and she was pretty good at being her. "'Kay."

"Here." Miss Militia leaned over in her chair, bringing a cup towards her face, a straw jutting out at a slightly-drooping angle. "Don't swallow, just spit it out when you're done."

She sipped, felt the wet trickle inside her mouth. Contemplated swallowing, because she was Shadow Stalker. Let it dribble out instead.

"She... Hib. Hibber. He-bear. Triggered."

Another sip of tepid water, irrigating away dryness.

"Was on the floor. She'd made... Emma."

"Taylor Hebert."

She nodded. "Bitch." The word slipped out, easy and unthinking. She didn't regret it. It was the right word. "She _cloned_ Emma. Was getting up in her face. Was... gonna do something to her."

She looked up from the plastic cup. Found bottle-green eyes watching her. Listening. No trace of judgment.

"She was a Master. So I went after the Master." She pulled lips away from her teeth in a slightly-sticky smile that turned into a grimace. "Think the bitch got to her dad."

"That was when you were injured."

Another nod. "Wasn't paying attention. Got focused. Stupid."

"And then?"

She found herself baring her teeth, a grimace not of physical pain. "Ran."

"It's okay, Sophia."

Those bottle-green eyes went blurry as she heard the words, realized she was blinking back tears. Shook her head.

"She's my friend. _Best_ friend. I wasn't gonna _leave_ her with a psycho fresh trigger."

"Of course. You went back to your locker for your crossbows and mask."

"Yeah." She looked down at the cup. Sipped as it was brought closer. "Thanks."

"And that's when you called in the situation."

"Yeah."

* * *

"He had just attacked Shadow Stalker, yes. We all saw her use her power after he'd hurt her."

"And then?"

"I..." Principal Blackwell breathed out. "After what he'd done... I had the other girls come with me back to my office. I said he should come with us, that there was a first-aid kit in my office for his daughter."

"So he accompanied the rest of you back to your office."

"I didn't _want_ him to." The words caught in her throat, harsh with emotion. "He was violent, dangerous, and we had no way to defend ourselves if... if he pushed things further.

"I... I guess I was hoping that if I played along, made it look like I was helping his daughter, that might... calm him down."

She tightened her fingers around her cup. Picked it up, sipped, grimaced. It hadn't cooled down enough.

"So, back to my office. I _suggested_ Mr Hebert lock himself and his daughter in my actual office, just to keep them away from the other girls... and that's when I set the school's crisis plan in motion."

"Locking down the campus, contacting us."

"Yes."

* * *

"Found them in the principal's office. Really fucked up. Her dad was ripping her apart and screaming."

"...ripping her apart?"

"Yeah. Fuckin' creepy... had her in Blackwell's chair, and it was like he'd punched through her chest."

"So I-" She lifted an index finger, crooked it as she clicked her tongue. "Wasn't going to forget about -him- again."

"You shot him."

"Yeah. And the other Emma, the copy; she was in there too."

"How did you know that one was the copy?"

She blinked, slow and confused. "What?"

"There were two Emma Barnes's present; the original, and the copy. How did you know which was which?"

"...I knew the one with Madison was the real one."

"You guessed."

"Fuck." The light throbbed in her eyes; she closed them, letting her head fall back into her pillow. "Who cares? Still got the right one. Still the big damn hero."

* * *

"This could have gone better."

"Shadow Stalker had her identity revealed, one of the major high schools in the city went into lockdown, we had a Ward injured, without backup, failing to follow proper engagement protocol for potential Masters and Strangers. There's a lot of room for 'better' there."

"...it could have gone so much worse."

"How so?"

"Two months ago, Stalker would've been using off-the-shelf bolts rather than the nonlethals we issued her."


	10. And Oh, My Friends

The light is pain; I open my eyes and it strikes into me with almost physical force, harsh white illumination ever-so-faintly flickering in a way that sends a band of pain up the back of my head.

I don't remember closing my eyes; I don't remember making a sound, but something prompts an electronic hiss and click before I hear a woman's voice, a little too loud against my ears.

"Hello? Can you hear me?"

I groan, pressing my head against my pillow and bringing a hand up to cover my eyes.

"It sounds like you're awake." She pauses. "My name is Miss Militia. Can you tell me who you are?"

The words penetrate, but it takes a moment before the _meaning_ does, before understanding blazes a path through the fog in my head.

_Miss Militia._

_Sophia._

**_Dad._ **

I push myself up on one arm, looking at the room through slitted eyes; I don't have my glasses, but I can still see bare steel walls.

"Where-" The word comes out thick and slurred through numb lips.

"You're in Protectorate headquarters; we've got you in a room for your safety. Can you tell me who you are?"

It's a weird question, and I can feel it slowly turning over in my head as I swing my legs down and sit on the edge of the bed, staring down at bare arms- _my_ bare arms.

And I remember _how I was Emma_ even as I notice that I'm _me_ again, even as I realize my sweatshirt is gone, even as my stocking feet touch the bare-metal floor.

"Taylor." I look at a dark spot that bulges out of one wall- a camera, maybe? "I-I'm-" I swallow. "Sophia. She- she shot me- she shot _Dad_ -"

"Taylor, it's going to be okay." Her voice is oil on the troubled water of my words, steady and soothing. "We know about what Sophia did, and we're going to take care of it, but I need your help."

And then she says the words that make the world stop.

"Taylor, we know you're a parahuman."

She pauses.

"We need to know what you did to your father."

_Dad?_

The words sit in my head, frozen and aching, and all I can think is _what's wrong with Dad?_

* * *

He looks down at his hands.

There used to be callus there, now faded from years of office work.

There used to be _strength_ there, but it's faded now as the scars and wrinkles have waylaid the tautness of youth.

They were a father's hands.

He looks at his hands, and all he can see is his daughter's face, eyes wide and pleading as she stares at him.

He looks at his hands, and all he can remember is the feeling of flesh parting like the pages of a book against his fingers, the sound of her struggling to breathe through lungs he's crushed and torn in his embrace.

There's a man in blue armor, sitting across the table from him as he looks at his hands.

The man tries to talk to him, asks him questions he doesn't hear over the sound of his little girl.

He looks down at his hands.

And he wishes he wasn't alone anymore.

[hr][/hr]

"I... I didn't do anything to Dad." The words come out mechanical, hesitant like the last notes of a wound-up music box as I remember him on his knees in front of the other me, the sound he made as he watched my torn-up self fall into nothingness before his eyes.

I can hear Miss Militia over the speaker, her words slow and hesitant. "Taylor... we spoke to Principal Blackwell. She said he was... very aggressive when she spoke to you two."

She hesitates. "Did you do that, Taylor? We just want to help him."

[hr][/hr]

He doesn't remember the man in blue leaving.

He knows the other man comes in, gold armor brilliant and shining over a white tunic, the red crest on his helm brushing against the top of the doorway.

He knows the man in gold-and-white sits down, pulls something from under one arm- a tablet.

The man shows it to him, and the world seizes to stillness when he sees his little girl's face, eyes closed like she's sleeping.

He stares. Sees her, sees how she was before that awful tearing moment.

Someone's saying his name, calm and patient as they repeat it again and again.

He looks up at the man, sees his smile, kind and sad with understanding as he speaks again, asks a question.

"Can you tell me about her?"

[hr][/hr]

"I didn't do _anything_ to him!"

The words spill out along with the tears as I tell her what happened, about Sophia holding me down as Emma used the razor, about how my Emma was there for me and then _gone_ and then there again, Dad seeing me that night and his reaction.

I tell her about meeting Blackwell, Emma coming in and playing turnabout; searching lockers, and what we found in mine. How Sophia attacked me, how I became Emma and Dad defended me.

I tell her about Blackwell's office and try not to think about what the words bring up.

She asks about my power, and I stare at the mirror on the wall of my room, dig into the sight of the stubble on my scalp and the feeling of exposure I get in this room where the light drives away all shadows-

And Emma's with me, pulling me into her arms and letting me close my eyes as I listen to her voice.

[hr][/hr]

"She was looking at me, and just for a moment, I didn't believe her." He's weeping openly now as he stares down at the picture of his daughter. "And she saw it, she saw she was _alone_."

A sniff, the sound long and clotted through his tears.

"And that's... that's." He swallows, wipes at his eyes. "She said she loved me, right before-"

The words are barbed, digging into his throat. _Right before I killed her_.

He looks up, into the armored man's eyes, and he can see a tear-trail half-masked under his helm.

"Danny." His voice is soft. "I am _so_ sorry."

They both stare at the picture of Taylor.

"She's not dead."

He hears the words, doesn't process them for a moment.

And then he looks up, sees Dauntless' eyes. Sees his smile, kind and genuine.

"We didn't find Taylor's body in Blackwell's office. Just you and Emma- someone who _looked_ like Emma Barnes," he corrects himself, tilting the tablet towards him and tapping a few commands before tilting it back to Danny.

He sees Emma, lying there.

And then the image animates into video, and Daniel Hebert watches as Emma's face frays apart like willow bark, peeling and dissolving into-

_Taylor._

"She's okay, Danny. She's _alive,_ just sleeping like you were."

He stares down at his little girl.

"And she's going to need you."

[hr][/hr]

Miss Militia is gone, but I'm not alone, breathing in Emma's scent and feeling her stroke my hair as she hums and my mind pinballs through memory after memory.

I remember Sophia.

Her crossbows.

The bandanna covering her face, and something feels _wrong_ , like it's supposed to be something else-

 _A mask._.

Memory calls back, a stern face cast in dark metal, crossbows akimbo, cape flaring-

Emma's hand stills on my hair. "What is it?" she asks.


	11. It Gives A Lovely Light

_Sophia is Shadow Stalker_.

I sit on the bed with Taylor-me, holding her hand as my thoughts pinwheel, spiraling like ribbons on a maypole.

"We're not joining the Wards," I murmur, and she nods, leaning into me.

"Just... god, _why_ ," she whispers, and all I can do is hold her tight and rub her back and lie to her about how it's going to be all right because I'm the only soft thing in this hard-metal cell.

I don't know how long it is, but the cell door finally opens; We look up as a figure enters- as _Dad_ comes in, and Taylor-me is up off the bed like a shot, lunging at him and hugging him so tight my arms ache in sympathy.

I get up after her, but slow, then stop when I realize she's hugging him... but he's not hugging her _back_ , arms loosely encircling her like she's a spun-glass ornament.

She looks up at him. "Dad?" she asks, her voice almost too soft to hear; I can hear her voice though, hear the quaver in it.

His eyes meet hers, his face softening in the sight of something precious as he brings up one hand and brushes trembling fingers over her hair.

"You're. You're my Taylor? You're the real one?"

He doesn't- he doesn't even look up at me, and my eyes start to blur with tears.

"...yeah," I hear her whisper, and I wipe my eyes clear in time to see his arms close around her like once-broken machinery in the tentative hands of a novice, pressing against her and then tightening when he realizes she's not going to shatter under his touch.

She hugs him; he _clings_ to her, desperate as a drowning man, and the sight of them blurs again as he holds her and all I can do is stand there and watch because there's no opening for _me_.

"I talked to Dauntless. Armsmaster, too."

I blink away the sea and realize he's looking up at me, and the nameless emotion I can see in his eyes makes me want to curl up and hide.

"They told me what you can do. How you make copies, switch places with them."

His voice is soft, firm; he says it like a statement of fact but the way he looks at me makes it feel like an accusation.

Taylor looks up at him, follows his gaze to me as I wilt under his eyes.

"Dad." She pulls an arm free of her embrace, pushes at his chest. "Dad, no. It's not her fault- she's me, blame _me_."

Dad looks down at her, his eyes shining. "I could _never_ blame you." His voice thick with emotion. "You're all I have now. I just-" He cuts off, closes his eyes, swallows as tears run down his face.

"I need you to be where I know you're safe."

He sniffs, nostrils flaring. "Armsmaster, he said- it's _dangerous_ out there for someone with powers, that the gangs are always hungry for new blood. And you can't defend yourself, Taylor... and _I_ can't protect you anymore." His words unspool like rote, calm but tinged with sorrow.

"That's why you're joining the Wards."

I feel my gut twist, see the other me stiffen in his arms. "Dad, no-"

"Taylor, I can't protect you." His words are heavy stones in his mouth. "The Wards _can._ "

"Dad, _no_." He looks over at me and I swallow. "I'm not joining them. Sophia's a Ward. She's... she's Shadow Stalker."

He looks down at Taylor again, and his eyes are so, _so_ sorry.

"I know," he says, and the world _flinches_ around me and I'm in Dad's arms, looking into eyes that shine with the sorrow of his sacrifice.

Silence.

"You _know?!_ "

My words slap against the dull-metal walls, and I push away from him, trying to free myself from his grasp.

The words come out bitter, twisted as brambles. "Her and Emma and Madison have been making my life hell for a _year,_ and all you can say is 'you _know'?_ "

He lets go and I recoil from him, fingers biting into my palms, my shoulders set like concrete and rebar.

"Taylor-" He looks at me, sitting across the bunk now that I've refused his arms, and the look in his eyes is something I don't ever want to understand. "I talked to Armsmaster, he agrees that what happened was- was _unconscionable_. He wants to get to the bottom of this, he wants to do what's _right-_ "

"I thought you were on _my side_." I look over at Taylor-as-Emma, how she's hugging herself with Emma's arms, and then his words hit me and I turn back to him, something hot flaring inside me.

"What's _right_?" I sound like Dad in Blackwell's office as the words come out, my lip curling until it feels like it's about to cramp. " _Right_ would be me not wanting to throw up every day before school. _Right_ would- would be teachers who- who _gave a shit_ about students who aren't _capes_."

"You have to believe me, Sophia's not going to get away with this-"

"I don't." I can feel my face squinching up, whitecaps salt-burning my sinuses. "God, Dad. I want it to stop. I want it to stop, I want to get out of the fucking _hole_ that my life's turned into and all you want to do is _bury_ me-"

I take a shuddering breath as my tempest washes over Dad and he doesn't _move_ , he doesn't _change_ in the face of my words.

"Taylor." He sounds like he did right after Mom died, and I look up at him, tears hot and liquid on my cheeks.

"I don't expect... this is what's best, little owl, and... and I hope you'll understand that someday."

The heaviness of his words sat upon me, suffocating. "Get out."

"Taylor-"

Saltwater pools on my glasses and Dad's a blurred mirage when I look up at him.

"Get _out!_ " The last word is almost a scream, tearing at my throat like something primal trying to free itself.

He says something I don't care about and the cell door opens and closes and then I'm _alone_ , hunched with my knees up, pressing against the ache in my chest that finally has a chance to come free.

The bed creaks as someone sits down next to me. A warm hand frees mine from where it's clamped onto my leg. Squeezes it so tightly it _hurts_ as we sit on the bed together, sharing our tears and our rage.

But I'm not alone. _We're_ not alone.

Not anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters 7-11 use for their titling the poem _First Fig_ , by Edna St. Vincent Millay


	12. You Made Me Older Than My Years

We sat on the bed together, each of us leaning on the other; I brushed a hand down her arm, watched her skin peel and fizz in sun-burnt effervescence.

She nodded, cheek brushing my shoulder. "Not much longer."

I swallowed. "I'm sorry. I didn't-"

"I know." Her voice had a burr to it, and I tried not to think about why. I felt her move, looked down into her blue eyes. She smiled, pinched and wistful. "We have to stop meeting like this, though."

I smiled too, bitter and sweet and salt all at once. "...yeah."

"Love you, Tay."

I closed my eyes. The tears came out anyways.

"Love you, too, Ems." I didn't think about the words until it was too late; she didn't seem to mind, closing her eyes and resting against me.

I held her until she was gone.

* * *

I sat on the bed. Leaned back against the wall, eyes closed.

I was tired.

I was alone.

I didn't want to be, didn't _have_ to be, but... I couldn't bring myself to call up another me into her mayfly life.

I couldn't say goodbye again.

* * *

The intercom popped, hissed softly as it activated. "Taylor? It's Miss Militia."

I swallowed. "Yeah?"

"Taylor, I have your things. Glasses, shoes, your clothes. Is it all right if I come in?"

I opened my eyes, looked up at the dark swell of the camera. Nodded wordlessly.

The cell door swung open and there she was, olive greens and reds and whites and blues bright in the cell light, bundled cloth in one hand and battered sneakers in the other.

She hesitated in the doorway, took a step towards me, then another; quicker than I realized, she was at the other end of the bed. I flinched, and she went still.

"I didn't mean to startle you, Taylor." She knelt, set my clothes on the bed, shoes on the floor.

"My glasses?" The words creaked out and I swallowed again. "Please?"

She reached into a pocket, drew out glinting glass and wire frames, set them on the bed, watched as I fumbled them open, put them on.

The world crystallized around me; soft blurs became sharper edges, seams on the metal walls sprang into existence, the gentle creases of laugh lines around her eyes, green as beach glass.

She didn't move as I grabbed my beanie. I pulled it on, felt tension leave my shoulders as warmth settled on my head.

"Taylor..."

I looked up as I picked up my sweatshirt, shook it open; found her eyes intent on me, giving me her full attention.

"If you want to talk..." Her eyes shift, search my expression. "I'm here."

My sweatshirt bunched in my fingers. "No." I closed my eyes, started to pull it over my head.

"...if you'd be more comfortable, I can see if one of the Wards-"

I _pulled_ , forced my head through the neck of the sweatshirt and almost dislodged my hat. "I don't want to talk to you. I don't want to talk to a _Ward_." I reached up, tugged my beanie back into place. "I want to go home."

Her flag bandanna creased, and she was silent for a moment; I looked down at my hands, watched fingernails pick at a rough spot on one fingertip.

"Taylor... I understand that you're angry. You should... you're not the only person who got their powers from a bad situation." She paused. "You're not alone, Taylor. I want you to know that."

My insides twisted and I felt my lips press together. "I haven't been _alone_ this last year." The words were tea and old knives in my mouth. "See how well that worked for me?"

We're both silent; with my glasses on, I can see the regret in her eyes.

"I want to _go home_. Please."

She nodded, slowly pushed herself to her feet. "I'll go see if your father-"

" _No_." My shoulders tensed, pulling up and in. "I don't. I don't want to go home with him. I don't want to _see_ him."

* * *

It took maybe an hour for the PRT to find someone to drive me home.

I stood on my doorstep, fingered the keys in my pocket; I pulled them out, slotted my house key in the lock-

-and before I could turn it, my keys pulled out of my hand as the door opened and-

-and _Dad's_ there, arms wrapping around me as he pulled me close.

The impact drove breath from my lungs and thought from my mind; I sucked in a breath, inhaled a faded curl of aftershave, and my head turned off as my arms went around him.

"Taylor..." he whispered, the word soaked in sorrow.

Maybe there were words after that one, but the only ones I could hear were _this is what's best, little owl_.

And it all comes back to me, dampened by fatigue, roaring into incandescence as I struggled in his embrace, pushed free-

He's looking down at me, and for a moment I _hate_ the look in his eyes, soft and dewy and _kind_ to where I feel guilty for hating what he's done to me.

_He doesn't deserve this. He doesn't get to destroy my life_ **_and_ ** _be the martyr._

_He doesn't get_ ** _me_**.

I pushed past him, knocked his hand off my shoulder and ignored him calling my name as I took the stairs staccato-step up to my room.

The door slammed behind me and I leaned against it, listening to Dad gavel-thump up the stairs behind me, the floorboards creaking as he approached my door.

"Taylor."

I didn't respond, palms pressed against the door, fingers splayed.

"I know you hate me."

Five words and my eyes were stinging.

"And... I understand."

 _Stop it_.

"It's okay. I'd hate myself too. If I were in your shoes."

 ** _Stop_**. My fingers curled to fists and I slid down to the floor as my knees gave way.

He said something else, but I wasn't paying attention, hunched over and letting his words wash over me and all I wanted was for him to _stop_.

I heard him shuffle in the hallway. Heard his footsteps as I walked away.

And all I could do is sit against the door and wish I wasn't-

Emma sprang into my mind, bright and smiling, but... she wasn't enough. She's not _right_ for this, I wanted to feel small and dark and _safe_ and-

An arm draped across my back, a hand on my shoulder pulled me into her embrace.

"Shh..." my mom whispered. "It'll be all right, little owl."


	13. I Am Young And Barely Grown

_It'll be all right, little owl_.

We were still sitting on the floor; Mo- _the other me_ had pulled me half into her lap, her fingers tracing down the line drawn in stubble over the curve of my head.

And it felt _right_ ; there was that star-sense of her, right up against me, that felt like sitting out on a spring day and letting the sun warm your clothes.

She held me. She _saw_ me.

And it didn't hurt at all.

It was the only thing that felt right in my entire life.

And the only conclusion I could reach from that was that I was utterly, bitterly _fucked_ , because the only sort of solace that I could find came with a built-in expiration date.

"I can't do this," I whispered to myself. Listened to Mom hum in quiet acquiescence as she stroked my hair. "God, I _can't do this_ and I don't know what to do."

I felt... drained. _Wrung out,_ even; I felt like an old torn-up dish sponge, soft and tattered and still vaguely damp no matter how you squeezed it out.

"I can't stay here."

Mom _shhhhhhed_ , shushing me in ocean-wave susurrus. "It'll be all right."

I knew the words were mine, but her voice, it-

It was so much her, it hurt.

My eyes closed and I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. "Promise?"

The pad of her thumb brushed along my hairline. "Promise," she echoed, her voice soft and soothing. "I'll take care of you."

* * *

Thunder filled my ears, resolved to the sound of a fist pounding on my door.

"Taylor? _Taylor?_ "

I sat up- I was in bed, still dressed, a cover thrown over me-

...and I was alone.

The doorknob rattled, turned; my door cracked open and I could see the glint of Dad's glasses in the hallway light.

I sniffed, wet my lips. "...was sleeping." The words came out fuzzy, sounding almost petulant.

"Dinner's almost ready. I want you downstairs in five minutes."

I hesitated. Considered. "...I'm... not really hungry."

He looked at me, _through_ me. "I want you downstairs in five minutes."

And then he was gone, without even bothering to close my door behind him.

I stared at the ray of illumination left by my half-open door, looked down at the spike of brightness broadcast across my bedroom carpet.

And I thought about how Dad sounded, angry and cold like Aconcagua.

I thought about Mom, and myself.

 _I'll take care of you_ , she whispered.

Is this what that looked like?

Did she try talking to Dad?

My gut twisted tight as I got up and headed downstairs, and it wasn't from hunger.

* * *

'Dinner' was the Hebert comfort food staples: grilled cheese sandwiches and chicken noodle soup.

Dad barely touched his; I managed a few bites of sandwich, pushed my spoon around my bowl, watching scraps of meat and chopped vegetables swirl in slow currents.

"Taylor."

I swallowed, looked up at him from my food. Looked up into flat, cold eyes, greener than glacier ice.

"You don't ever, _ever_ make one of those things in the house again."

Dad stared at me, and it was like I'd swallowed concrete and let it set in my gut; it felt like when I was little and I'd done something I didn't know was wrong.

"...Dad?" my voice was small, quiet and trembling. "What..."

And Dad _looked_ at me, the way he looked at Blackwell, the way he looked at Sophia, something naked and furious in his gaze that left me wordless and stammering.

* * *

He let me leave the table; didn't have anything to say to me as I fled up the stairs, back to my room.

I shut my bedroom door, leaned against it, closed my eyes.

I wanted to throw up what little I'd eaten, covered my mouth not sure if I was going to retch or sob.

 _I can't_ **_do_ ** _this._

I thought... god I didn't know what to think. That somehow things would be better, given time?

And just... I'd _given_ it time, I'd slept on it even, and now things were _even worse_.

I couldn't _do_ this. I couldn't just _sit_ here and let Dad chip away at my life.

I took a step, then another. Crossed the room, opened my closet door, ready to dig out my old weekend bag that we'd used for vacations-

Only it was right there, sitting on top of everything else in my closet.

And when I picked it up, it was heavier than it should be.

I set it on my bed, unzipped it-

It was already packed: two, maybe three days of clothes rolled up into tidy bundles, an old nylon wallet loaded with what I'd saved from my allowance...

And in one zipped pocket, a note.

It was in Mom's handwriting.

> If you're reading this, then you've found the bag, and that means things aren't going well with Danny.

> I can't claim to understand what he's going through; most of me is you, after all, and we both know how we feel about Dad right now.

> The wallet contains all the cash I could find; I went online and pulled down the Greyhound departure times for Boston.

> There's also a listing for some youth hostels and cheap hotels, too.

> Know that I love you, and I'll be there when you need me.

I had to sniff back tears as I finished.

The bag sat on my bed. Ready. Waiting.

Was _I_ ready?

I mean, _god_ , I was _running away from home_.

I was leaving behind _everything._

But...

...I bit my lip. _It's not like there's much to leave behind. Not like it's my life anymore, anyways_.

I reached down, zipped the bag up. Looked over at my window, then back at my bedroom door.

I closed my eyes, sank into that dark space where someone was always watching-

There was a hand on my arm, a star in my mind; I opened my eyes, saw Mom-

And I closed my eyes; focused on that bright, shining star and _pulled_ -

And when I opened my eyes again, I was staring at myself, a sad little smile on her face.

"Twice as bright, huh?"

My smile mirrored hers. "Half as long. Sorry. Can you...?"

"Keep him busy?" She nodded. "I'll tell him what he wants to hear, say I'm going to bed."

I nodded. Watched as she opened my bedroom door, started to thump down the stairs, calling "Dad?"

"...god, I'm sorry," I whispered, and went to the window. Opened it, felt the rush of cold night air, heard the broad-shadowed tones of my copy and Dad talking as I climbed out, bag slung over my shoulder.

I dangled from the sill, wearing Mom's clothes, wearing her face.

I let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Zira, who helped me through some blockages.


	14. And When I Cry, I Cry Your Tears

You didn't wake up as I carried you to bed; when I peeled off your socks and shoes, tugged a comforter over you.

I leaned over, ready to kiss you on the forehead-

It wasn't right. It didn't _feel_ right.

It felt right before, when we were on the floor and you were in my arms; when it felt like Mom was stained-glass, and I was the light that shone through, radiance given hue and tone.

Now?

My rose window was gone.

_And all that was left was me._

"Guess my power needs an audience," I murmur as I reach out to stroke your hair, stopping as you stir.

 _And all I have right now is myself_.

"And all you have right now is... well, me."

Did you know you snore? I didn't; it's a faint whicker, right at the edge of my hearing.

_Who's watching out for you?_

I think we both know.

_I know what you want._

_"I can't do this."_

_I know what you need._

_"I can't stay here."_

_And you're going to be the one who has to live with it._

* * *

Things come together quickly, even if I have to be quiet to keep from waking you.

Your computer hums to life; I let it run through booting up as I go into your closet, dig out that musty old weekend bag, and start loading clothes from your dresser.

_Thank you, past-me, for actually_ **_folding_ ** _your laundry this week._

Computer's booted; I open up the browser, navigate to the Greyhound company's site.

It takes forever to load, dial-up modem pulling down an unnecessarily fancy page-

 _Money._ That would be good. You'd donate to a good cause, right? In the bag it goes.

Schedules are up; I grab a stationery pad and start transcribing, numbers and times flowing from screen to eye to hand as most of my mind starts to puzzle through the note I'm going to leave you.

"Postmortem script," I say to myself, stifling a laugh.

I think you'd find it funny. But that's not what you need right now, is it?

Places to stay - youth hostels, motels? I'm not sure how far you'll get with a high schooler's ID, but it's worth a shot.

_Is Dad going to follow you?_

Don't worry about that. He'll have other concerns.

* * *

The letter's written; your bag's packed and stuffed back in the closet.

I sit on the edge of your bed and watch you sleep. Listen to you snore.

"Little horse?" I smile. "Little owl."

The words sound almost right.

"I know where you are, all caught up in your head." My smile twists, turns wry. "And I'm so far away from there, right now."

"I have perspective, now." I watch you breathe, how each exhalation stirs the hair strewn across your pillow like wind on tall grass.

"I know you want to leave, more than anything." I stand, then lean down to kiss your temple; you murmur in your sleep, the faintest curve of a smile on your lips.

" _I'll give you a reason to_ ** _run_** ," I whisper in your ear.


	15. For I Have No Life Of My Own

The streets are all dark and still, this late on an October night; I stride down empty walks and cross untracked regrets, heels striking concrete in a rhythm unbroken by traffic light or crosswalk signal.

The cadence makes it easier; footfall and heartbeat finding a sort of harmony, marking time in a way that pins itself to the forefront of my mind and drives away other thoughts.

Thoughts about how it feels to _wear_ my mother like a set of clothes, constrictive and unexpectedly binding like my body's the wrong size for my wardrobe.

Thoughts about home, about Dad.

Second thoughts, whether leaving was the right choice to make.

I can feel that star-sense of my copy, already weak and flickering from when we swapped places and guises; minutes pass, an ever-increasing distance separates us, and the flame-drawn-low gutters and struggles-

And then it's gone, leaving my head full of darkness and footfall and the beat of my heart.

 _"Thank you,"_ I whisper to the night.

My watch says it's been about ten minutes since I left; another ten after that and my guise starts to fray, Mom peeling away from me like a mummy's bandages-

Yeah, I laughed. It's late and I'm tired.

And I'm _cold_ ; regardless of whether I'm Taylor or Annette Hebert, it's still an October night in Brockton Bay, and I can still feel the harshness of the air every time I breathe in.

I'm pretty sure the other me packed a jacket; Mom always thought about things like that. Getting it out would mean stopping, though... and walking's keeping me pretty warm.

(Walking's also keeping me from thinking about home and the warmth of a bed behind a closed door and the man behind that closed door, the tension in his voice and the way his heart beats in his closed fists.)

It'll be warmer once I reach the bus depot.

* * *

The depot is definitely warmer.

At least, it looks warmer from out here.

(I was about to go inside when I realized that 'tall black-haired girl buying a ticket to Boston in the wee hours' was distinctive enough that it might help someone trace my egress.)

(A certain savage part of me really liked the idea of Dad being the one to abet said egress; it had a certain turn-the-knife simplicity to it.)

So, Dad-me is inside, ordering a bus ticket; I'm outside, loitering in an alcove across the street, trying to be inconspicuous.

...I'm not very good at it.

Found my jacket, at least. That's something.

Still cold, though.

* * *

Dad-me comes back out, bus ticket in hand; he looks both ways, crosses the street to meet me in my alcove.

"Any trouble?"

He shakes his head. "No problems. Next bus leaves in an hour; here." Holds out a mess of small bills and change.

"Thanks." I stuff the change in one pocket of my jacket, take the bus ticket and put it in another pocket; I don't notice Dad-me stepping closer.

I _do_ notice when he puts an arm around my shoulders, starts to pull me closer and I duck my head under his arm, pushing away from him as I take a step back, the night air harsh on my throat as my breath comes in quick gasps-

-And I look up and Dad's looking back at me in dog-like befuddlement; sad and baffled and an unasked _why_ in his eyes.

"You looked cold," he says, and I fight to get my breathing under control. Shake my head.

"Sorry," is the only word that comes out at first. I gesture at him. "It's just... you're _him_."

He looks down at himself, confused- and then clarity strikes and his eyes narrow.

"That _asshole_ ," he growls, and I feel the side of the alcove press into my back as I hear the undercurrent of _threat_ in his voice-

"S-stop." The voice is high and breathy and it takes a moment to realize that it's mine as Dad's gaze flicks up to meet mine. "Please...?"

He stares at me for a moment, brow furrowed- and then his expression runs like water, trickling through understanding and shock.

"God, it- honey, I'm sorry-"

I'm already shaking my head. "Just- it, you took me-" I look up at him. "Can you... _not_ be... him?"

We stare at each other for a few moments; I watch his face twist in bemused consideration.

"I... can try." He reaches up, takes his glasses off, rubs his face. "God, this is messed up."

"...Being him?"

He nods. Puts his glasses back on, looks across the street at the bus depot, his expression bleak.

"Hey."

He looks back at me, curious.

I hold open my arms, try a smile. "You look kinda cold?"

* * *

My cheek is pressed to flannel and there are strong arms around me and I can smell warmth and the husk of orange and cedar that's Dad's aftershave.

I'm leaning against him, letting his embrace define the scope of my world, almost floating there in my fatigue.

And then a voice breaks through; a girl's voice, high and clear in the cold night air.

"Mister Hebert?"

Dad's arms tense around me.

"...Taylor?"

I open my eyes, twist in Dad's arms to look-

 _She's_ ** _small_** _,_ is my first thought; she barely comes up to my chest, the greens of her costume sharp and vivid under sodium light.

"Vista," Dad says, echoing my next thought. He frowns, letting go of me as he steps between her and I. "Look, I know the situation had the PRT worried, but I found Taylor- she's safe, she's _okay_ , we had a talk and-"

Vista's head slowly tilts to one side as she watches Dad-me talk. "You're not Mr. Hebert, though," she says, interrupting him.

"I... beg your pardon?"

Her visor is opaque, but I can see her smile, a tight little _a-ha_ grin. "Daniel Hebert's at home with a PRT liaison, waiting to-"

" _Run,_ " Dad whispers, and I duck out to one side, darting past Dad, past the small superhero-

And I stagger, as the sides fall off the world and the night sky yawns wide above me.

The pavement stretches, the sidewalk wider than the street used to be, the street open and gaping like the interstate in the witching hour-

"Taylor, _please_ -"

I could run, run for _hours_ and not even cross the street.

"I just want to talk, that's all."

I look back; she's turned to face me, but other than that, she's barely moved, her hands at her sides.

And behind her, the Dad-shaped me, stiff-shouldered, fingers knotting as he steps up behind her-

-and all I can see is Dad standing over Sophia in a Winslow hallway-

" _No._ "

Vista glances over her shoulder at Dad and casually gestures with one hand; the distance between them _sprawls_ wide, the feet between them lengthening to yards.

Dad-me stands there for a moment, stymied; he takes a step or two towards us and the sidewalk accordions between us, pushing him away like he's on a concrete treadmill.

And for a moment, she just _looks_ at me, her expression unreadable under her visor.

"Why won't you leave me _alone?_ " The question explodes from me, dripping with sick frustration, almost-petulant in how the words sound like the pleading of a child.

Her shoulders drop, and I can see her sigh come out as a puff of fog.

"Because everyone's life goes to shit when they get powers."

She takes a few steps, moving slowly like I'm a wild animal, and carefully sits on the curb, looking up at me.

"That's actually how you get powers, you know that? Worst day of your life hits, and boom, you get to warp space, stop time, get a gun that never goes away." She smiled slightly, glanced over at Dad-me. "Make copies."

I'm staring at her - _all I can do_ is stare at this girl.

"And nobody handles it well - especially parents." She nods towards the bag on my back. "Kinda imagine that's why you want to gee-tee-eff-oh." She enunciates each syllable with precocious precision.

My voice, when it comes out, is strangled, each word forcing its way up through an ever-tightening throat. "What the _hell_."

"Taylor." Her expression sobers, and she leans forward a little. "Listen, you _don't have to do this_. The Wards have quarters in the PRT building, you can stay with us while we talk to your dad, get him to see reason-"

My legs are trembling, _tired_ from all the walking I've done today; I drop down to sit on the sidewalk, back against a newspaper box. "You're never going to stop, are you?"

After a moment, she shakes her head. "I could let you go. Let you catch your bus, ride off down to Boston. PRT would just have someone there looking out for you, same as I'm doing right now." Her nose wrinkles. "And you'd have to sleep on a bus."

I breathe out a long sigh and let my head fall back, let it thump against the sheet-steel of the newspaper box as I look up at the stars.

"Hey." Vista's voice is quieter, the hints of brash professionalism replaced with something softer, more vulnerable. "Come stay with us. Just for the night."

The stars are glimmering; I close my eyes, feel tears spill down the sides of my face. "What about Sophia?"

"...she's still in a hospital bed. You wouldn't see her."

I sniff, the sound of it all blobby and congested. "Good."

"So... you want to come back with me?"

I knuckle the tears away from my eyes until I can see her smile, hopeful and salt-blurred by my glasses.

"...okay."


	16. Why Don't You Write Me Some Candlelight

We stand on the sidewalk and watch my copy disappear into the depot to get a refund on the bus ticket; Vista's murmuring quietly to herself, fingers pressed to her ear.

"Hey, here." I look down and see the smaller girl holding something up for me; it's one of those black masks that go over your eyes. I take it, turn it over in my hands; it's soft plastic, the inside lined with little suckers that remind me of starfish feet.

 _Right. Because I'm a cape now._ I take off my glasses, press the mask to my face; I feel the plastic mold to my skin, warming to where I can barely feel it's there.

I wrinkle my nose, try a few expressions before I put my glasses back on and notice Vista working to suppress a smile.

There's an awkward silence as we wait for my copy to come back out - I start seeing movement as PRT officers emerge from alleys and around corners; a set of black vans pull up.

Vista nods towards one. "C'mon. We can wait inside, it'll be warmer."

She leads me around to the back of one of the vans, pulling open the double doors to reveal a cramped space, a bench on each side littered with buckles and strapping.

We climb in, one after the other; she sits on one side, I sit on the other.

Vista doesn't move to close the doors; I'm secretly grateful, even if it does let most of the warm air out.

"Comfy?"

I duck my head in something like a nod, open my mouth to say something like 'thank you', to be polite to someone who's trying to be kind-

-but my stomach beats me to it, overturning with a bubbling gurgle.

Vista chokes back a laugh. "Guess not." She reaches into her belt, pulls out a protein bar, holds it out to me. "Here."

I take it, unwrap, bite; I taste flat chocolate and musty cookie dough and I haven't eaten in _hours_ and it's **_amazing_** **-**

I'm done almost before I realize that I've started; Vista's watching me with the avidity of a girl with a new birdfeeder outside her window.

A shadow crosses her face as she watches me fold the wrapper and stuff it in my jacket.

"...what did Sophia do?" She doesn't say _to you_ ; the words sit in the air between us, unspoken, suffocatingly silent.

And in that silence, I hear the chattering of a razor, fast and thready like the beating of my heart; I look at her, bluntly asking. Someone bearing authority, someone who's sitting there, willing to listen. _She's been nothing but kind_ , I think, _and she's small_ , a child not a teenager, I can't see her wielding the false-kindness they tried on me-

"She held me down." The words come out fumbling, halting. Sorting their way through cold tile pressed to my cheek, the humid reek of moisture in the air.

"She held me down, and Emma did this." I reach up, pull off my knit cap, watch her reaction as I finger bristly-velvet stubble-

-but it's not enough; I can see it in the set of her shoulders, half-parted lips ready to unthinkingly utter _well that doesn't seem so bad-_

"My mom had hair like mine." The words come out thick as I force them through grief's chokehold. "She died, and it was one of the things I had that was hers."

Telling her this feels right somehow; it feels _just_ and it feels _free_ , having someone who listens, someone who isn't loaded with brisant rage. Someone I don't have to pick and choose my words around.

Someone who isn't Dad.

"It was _hers_ ," I say, and it feels like I'm finally allowed to be angry, the words ripping out of me strong and true. "And Sophia and Emma, they, they _cut it off_ and left it on the _bathroom floor_ , and then-"

I remember being there. Staring at myself in the mirror, at what they'd done-

"...and that was when things started getting bad," Dad- my _copy_ said, leaning against one of the van doors.

Vista doesn't respond; at least, it doesn't look like she has, but I realize how still she's gone, how pale her face is against the greens of her costume.

And when she finally opens her mouth, all that comes out is a quiet '...that _bitch_ ,' and it's spoken with a level of loathing and distaste that almost parallels mine.

Just like that, I feel the anger in me evaporate; it's gone, and I am empty and tired... but it feels _good_ , somehow. It's like-

It reminds me of Emma; of coming home after a day at her house, tired but replete with that sensation of having been with someone who understands, who _sees_ you better than anyone.

I smile at Vista; she smiles back, and there's something there, a softening to her expression as some of that sober professionalism fades from her face.

"You ready to go?" she asks, and I nod.

Dad slides in next to me; reaches over, pulls a door closed; Vista slides over to do the same on her side.

"We're good to go," she says, and as the van lurches to life, Dad reaches over and drops a wad of bills and dollar coins in my hand.


	17. And Wear Your Heart Of Gold

The drive to the PRT was quiet; I leaned against Dad, cap back on my head. Vista had my copy put on a spare mask, which I guess made sense.

"So..." I looked up at her; she gestured between my copy and I. "Uh, you're going to need two rooms, I guess...?"

Dad shook his head. "I'm not going to last the night," he said. "Just a room for her."

She bobs her head, affirming as she takes out her phone and starts to type.

* * *

We drive down a ramp and disembark, emerging into an underground parking garage; Vista leads the way to the elevator.

"Next stop, the bunker," she says with a little smile as we get inside and she pushes a button. "The Wards rooms are in one of the lowest sub-basements. For 'protection'."

The elevator lands and we step out into a hallway, the other end sealed with a large steel door. Vista leads us over, enters something on a keypad, squints into a burst of light; the door opens and she ushers us through.

We pass through a commons room; there're couches and a conference table and what looks like a kitchenette in one corner, but I don't get a chance to look around as we go through another door, down another hallway, until we stop in front of a door with a piece of masking tape; someone's printed 'ANCILLARY' on it in blocky capitals.

"This is yours-" She catches herself as I reach out, touch the tape.

"Yeah, everyone gets a temporary cape name to start out... mine was Euclidiator." She smiles a little. "You get to change it if you don't like it."

I open the door to reveal a small, utilitarian room; blank white walls, a desk, a chair, bed with bedside table and dresser.

It smells like a space that hasn't been used in months, the air still and musty.

"Bathrooms are at the end of the hall." I look up, notice where she's pointing. "Uh, don't go anywhere besides this room, the hall, and the bathroom; we don't have your biowhatsits and it'll set off alarms and stuff."

I nod slowly and she smiles. "Oh yeah, wear your mask when you leave your room - it's just a good habit to get into."

She points the other direction, back up the hallway. "My room's just up there... just knock if you need anything, 'k?"

"...you're not going home?"

She smiles, a little sad, a little sweet. "You thought you were the only one with family issues?"

* * *

I drop my bag on the bed, sit down next to it; my copy settles down in the desk chair with a sigh.

My smile is a little kind, and more than a little sad. "Thank you."

"Anytime." He smiles, and it's Dad's smile; more of a tired grimace, really, flat and lacking the light in his eyes.

"Everything okay?"

He drops the smile; drops his gaze, avoiding my eyes.

"Hey. Tell me? Please?"

"...I saw the way you looked at me. Outside the bus depot."

"Oh." _Oh_.

"When you make another me? Don't make them look like Dad." His eyes flick up, gaze meeting mine for a moment. "It's not good for either of us."

* * *

I was alone.

Dad was gone; I'd changed into sleeping clothes, gotten into bed.

I lay in a bed that wasn't mine, in a room that was a few words and a caul of politeness away from being a prison.

All I had was what I brought with me, and that was almost nothing; it feels like I'm falling, lost and flailing, everything out of reach and I'm _afraid_ -

The bed creaks as someone's weight settles on it; fingers brush across my cheek and neck.

"Little owl," my mother murmurs, and I can hear her smiling; I close my eyes tighter as they start to sting.

"Mom..."

"I'm here," she says quietly. "I'll always be here when you need me."

I start to cry.

* * *

I've cried one side of my pillow soggy, and I am _done_ ; I lean against Mom, resting as a hand slowly rubs my back.

"I don't know what to _do_."

"They want you to be a Ward."

"Yeah... and they're not taking no for an answer."

"You always wanted to be a hero, though."

Shake my head, press my face into her. "That was before."

 _Before Emma. Before her and Sophia and Madison and cold tiles on my cheek and the scent of mildew on my tongue_.

"Yeah," Mom says. "They kinda... well, they fucked up there."

"How do I do it, then? How do I be a hero, when heroes are... are like _that?_ "

Mom's quiet, one hand gently rubbing my back. "I have a suggestion," she finally says. "But you're not going to like it."

Twist to look up at her. "What?"

"Did I ever tell you I used to run with Lustrum's group, back in college?"

I blink at that. "You mean you-"

She laughs a little. "No, no. I got out before she started... getting violent. But that wasn't the only reason."

"Was it Dad?"

"Partly." Her smile fades a little. "Lustrum's motif was all about upending the social order, bringing equality and justice on the point of a sword. Which is appealing when you're a college student fresh to the marketplace of ideas."

"...what happened?"

A rueful smile. "I started asking questions. Doing research." Her hand moves in slow circles on my back. "Do you know what I found out?"

Mom's telling a story, and I am _rapt_. "No. What?"

"Change? Real, structural change? Most of the time, it comes from within."

"From within- you mean..."

"They want you to be a hero. They're giving you a road in." Her arm pulls tight around me. "Take it. Be the hero you want to be, that _they_ want you to be... but on _your_ terms, not theirs."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The titling for chapters 12-17 draws from the song _We Shall Wear Midnight_ , by Steeleye Span.


	18. I Wished For Things That I Don't Need

"I have conditions." I look across the conference room table at Deputy Director Renick. At Mr. Weis, who represents something called the 'Youth Guard' in his polo shirt and easy smile; at Ms. Sobol, sitting opposite him in dress shirt and tie like a cheap stereotype of a federal agent.

I had notes, scribbled on a scratchpad with a half-dead pen in the middle of the night, but I wasn't going to look down at them.

I knew I didn't have a leg to stand on, but I was going to try anyway.

For Mom.

"Vista told me about how you get powers." The words sound so small as they cross the table, barely echoing from the walls. "How they come on the worst day of your life."

"The girls who did this to me-" My fingers clench, curl, nails biting into abused skin as my throat tightens; I try to hold onto composure, try to think about Dad at work, strong and firm at the negotiating table; try not to feel the empty seat next to mine, the knowledge that I could fill it with someone and _not be alone_.

"This wasn't the first time." My gaze drops to my hands, clammy-slick, knuckles white and bulging, and I force myself to flatten my fingers against the table. "They've been doing it since the start of the year."

I fold one hand to the other, pull in a breath; try to reorder the jumble of words in my head.

_Be the hero you want to be._

_Get your justice. On your terms, not theirs_.

"Something that was always a mystery to me was... was _How?_ How were they able to get away with what they did, for so long?"

I look up at Mr. Renick. "Sophia being a Ward cleared up that mystery." He shifts in his seat, has the good grace to look ashamed.

"Miss Hebert." The man in the polo shirt speaks up, looking at me as he tries out a smile that's meant to be comforting. "I would just like to say that the Youth-"

"-excuse me-"

"-Guard are-"

"I'm _not done_." The edge in my voice puts him to silence; that, or the way my entire body is locked tight and tense to keep from shaking myself to pieces under their combined, shocked scrutiny. Sweat pools at the small of my back.

"I want-" I start, the words halting and difficult. "I want to understand what happened. How this could have gone on for almost a _year_ without anyone intervening, without _any_ consequences for what they did."

_I want them to feel consequences._

_I want them to be punished._

_I want them to_ **_hurt_ ** _._

The tightness in my throat makes it easy to choke off the words before I can utter them; I close my eyes, try to find focus.

_I'm going to be a hero._

_I have to show them that._

"I want to make sure that what happened to me doesn't happen to _anyone_. Ever again."

My eyes open, and I look down at my hands, watch one thumbnail reflexively pick at the other.

"I want justice."

For a moment, there's silence; I look up, and find them all looking at me; the emotion in their eyes is uncomfortable, unfamiliar, and it takes me a little while to place it.

Respect.

_Maybe I can do this._

Mr- _Deputy Director_ Renick is the first one to speak up.

"Taylor." He folds his hands in front of him, meeting my gaze with sympathy in his eyes. "Thank you for sharing that. I realize it must have been difficult for you."

I nod jerkily, ducking my head so I don't have to meet his eyes as he continues.

"What happened to you happened on the PRT's watch, and I want to assure you that I plan to investigate what happened to you, and those responsible _will_ find consequences for what they've done."

They're such small, simple words; I can't recall someone ever saying them to me before.

"Taylor."

My eyes sting; I peel off my glasses, rub with my sleeve to defuse ambushing tears.

"Yeah." My glasses go back on, and I look up at him.

He smiles, small and tentative and oddly gentle. "You're doing all right. I can't think of many people in your situation who would be handling this with such maturity."

The set of my shoulders starts to crack; fingers curl around each other to hide their tremors.

"Was there anything else you wanted to cover, Taylor?"

All my careful words are gone; I expected pushback, resistance, Blackwell's mealy-mouthed prevarications about evidence and mutual blame.

"I want to get out of Winslow," I find myself saying. "And I don't want to see my dad."

Mr. Weis picks up his pen, makes a note on the pad afore him.

"Well... getting you transferred to Arcadia _will_ help smooth out your Wards experience." Mr. Renick nods at the woman in the shirt and tie. "Ms. Sobol is going to be your handler and point-of-contact with the PRT; she's going to be working with your principal, ah..."

"Blackwell," she supplies, smiling a little as she looks over at me. "Don't worry, I've done my due diligence."

"Right." The deputy director picked up his pen, fidgeted with the cap. "As for the other matter..."

His eyes flick over to Mr. Weis, then back to me. "The Wards do have rooms here at PRT headquarters; I believe you stayed there last night? I'm sure there won't be any trouble with you staying there while we work out what happens in the longer term."

Mr. Weis doesn't seem to have an objection to that.

I look across the table at the three of them, all easy smiles and confident solutions, and all I can feel is a sick sense of relief, one I hope isn't echoed in my expression.

"Taylor?" Mr. Renick's standing, one hand extended towards me.

I take it, clasp it firmly.

"Welcome to the Wards."


	19. What I Chased Won't Set Me Free

"And I think that covers all the introductory paperwork, as well as giving you some reading to do in your downtime."

I look down at the binder in my hands, blazoned with the eagle-wings-and-bastion-shield heraldry of the PRT; the words underneath read 'WARDS - GUIDELINES AND POLICY'.

The weight of it- it was solid in my lap, heavy, _real_ in a way the Deputy Director's handshake hadn't been.

"Doing okay? I know this can be a little overwhelming."

I look up at Ms. Sobol's- no, _Kirsty_ , she'd said. Saw her smiling, gentle and familiar and felt heat rise to my cheeks.

"...sorry," I finally said. "It, um. It kinda... hit me?" I gesture in the air. "Like, it's really, ah... real."

Her smile widens. "Oh, _that_." She leans over her desk a little, lowers her voice. "Aegis had that exact same look when we started working together."

It takes a second for her words to register. "When you... you mean you..."

"Used to be Aegis' handler?" She smiles, quietly proud. "Yeah. He's a good kid."

* * *

I'm blinking through afterimages as we leave the IT department, phone and laptop and binder stacked in my arms, new ID fluttering on a lanyard around my neck, retinas freshly irradiated.

Kirsty helpfully holds the door for me.

"And with that, I think we've..." She lets the door close behind us, checks her phone. "Yeah, that's everything I've got for you today."

I nod without thinking, still trying to fix my new password in my head before it slips out under the pressure of everything else that's happened today.

"How about I let you go?" She gestures at my burden, then the general direction of the elevator. "Give you a chance to unload stuff in your room, decompress."

"I. Uh." I nod again, bracing the edge of the laptop against my hip. "Yeah, that'd be, um, yes, please?"

She smiles. "Sure thing. You think you can find your way back on your own?"

I bob my head again, feeling awkward; she smiles, understanding.

* * *

The elevator ride down was quiet.

Mostly quiet; there was a soft chiming sound coming from-

Oh. _Oh_.

I juggle everything in my arms as I shift my new phone into one hand, squint down at the display as I try to work out what to swipe to answer this _Gary Weis_ person-

"H-hello?"

"Ancillary!" His voice was warm, static-scratchy over the phone's small speaker. "Gary Weis, your representative with the Youth Guard."

"I, yeah. You were there this morning, with Deputy Dir-"

He cut in like a machete through my dance card. "-and your handler, yes. Look, I just got notification that you were registered in The System, so I just wanted to set up an appointment with you to, y'know, inform you of your rights and the protections you have as a Ward."

I stared at the elevator indicator. "Uh, okay-"

"Great!" I listened to his keyboard clatter, and then my phone chimes, _right in my ear_.

Ow.

"Okay, I've sent an appointment request to your email; just, ah, click the link to confirm and then we're golden."

"...I'll do that."

"Great! I'll see you tomorrow." My phone beeps softly as he hangs up.

I let out a breath I didn't remember holding; looked down at my phone's screen, tapped and slid until I found my almost-empty inbox. Found myself scowling at the single email I found there.

I forced myself to breathe out again.

_It's just one guy._

I tapped, confirmed.

_I can make this work._

* * *

_Why isn't this_ **_working_ ** _?_

I squint at the blurry aperture of the retinal scanner, lean in, let light flood my vision-

Listen as the machine buzzes in rejection, _again_.

"Hey!" The word had _presence_ , a feeling of almost-physical pressure as it washed over my back. I half-turn, stare over my shoulder at the tall figure striding down the hallway, gleaming in lion-themed white and gold.

_Triumphant._

"Look, you can't be away from the rest of the tour group..." His words slow as he approaches, _he_ slows, stopping a little ways from me as he looks me over, suspicion radiating in the angle of every limb.

"You're the new Ward."

I bob my head in affirmation, the words caught in my throat, pinned there by the glare I can feel through his tinted visor.

"You have ID?"

He examines the card on my lanyard, taking it from my hand and flicking it with a thumbnail before he lets it drop back to my chest.

"Looks okay." He raises his head, looking from me to the electronics on the wall. "You've got your ID, so you _should_ be in the system... let's see."

I stare, dumbfounded as he leans in and huffs on the scanner, clouding the lens with exhaled condensation.

"Try it again."

Dubious, I lean in, try not to blink as searing sunlight-through-raindrops light interrogates my eye for a small eternity before there's a long, harsh buzz and a green light.

"Don't worry." I look over and he's smirking, confident, knowing. "Just the mask-up alarm for everyone inside."

I swallow, try to find words. "What. What did you do?"

"If you smudge the lens a little it goes into error-correction mode. Takes longer, works better."

"Oh."

* * *

The warning buzzer ends; we hear the door's lock _click_ and then Triumphant leads me inside and _everyone's there;_ Kid Win and Gallant in red-and-gold and cerulean techsteel at the conference table, checking gear like they're about to go out.

Vista sits across from them, the eraser end of a pencil at her lips as she does some kind of workbook; she sees me, and a grin flashes across her face as she lifts her fingers in a demure little wave.

There's movement from over on the couch, two figures looking over the upholstery at us, a video game on pause.

"Aw, Try," the one in white calls out, "you found a stray!"

And _everyone's_ eyes are on me, watching me as I feel the lurch of my power; I wrestle it down, press my butterflies under cold glass, try to _breathe_.

"Everyone." Triumphant's voice fills the room; he steps to one side, putting me on the spot. "I'd like you all to meet Ancillary, our newest Ward."

Vista's _beaming_ , her smile confident and bright. "So it's- all the paperwork's done?"

It's infectious; I can't help but smile back at her as the muscles in my legs tense. "All signed, got my ID and phone and things. I'm a Ward, I guess."

I look around the room, at everyone looking at me; try to summon the nerve I'd built up during the elevator ride down to take the next, inevitable step.

_I can do this._

"So, uh."

My hands aren't shaking, they _aren't_ as I pull my glasses off, peel the domino mask away; my glasses go back on and everyone comes into focus-

"Hi. I'm Taylor."

They're just _staring_ at me, and against that frozen fixated tableau I can feel my power shift and coil, feel the set of my shoulders tense, fingers curling tight _just like Dad's,_ like this is the only armor and weapon I have for when their eyes go cruel and their tongues go sharp-

"Oh, for f-Fred's sake." Vista reaches up to her visor. "Well, you already know I'm Vista." The green plastic comes away, and she smiles up at me through a disarray of dark-blonde hair. "But you can call me Missy."

And just like that, it's like the spillway gate comes down.

"Hey." The figure in the suit of knight's armor lifts a hand. "I'm-"

His helm hisses, clatters, _grates_ with a screech of metal as it starts to lift and then freezes. "Aw, sonuva-"

"No!" The boy in the red and gold jerks up in alarm, looking over at Gallant and gesturing in abortive panic as the armored figure reaches towards his visor with a gauntleted hand "No, don't, you're going to torque the fasteners _again_ -"

"Kid, you said it wasn't going to _happen_ again-"

"That was three weeks ago and you didn't come around for maintenance-"

"You weren't _around_ for maintenance-"

Triumphant _coughs_ , thick and predatory; the sound has force and weight, bass deep enough I can feel it resonate through my chest, and everyone is jarred to silence.

"...Gallant, uh." The boy in red and gold finds his voice again, plucking at one of the knight's gauntlets. "Come back to my workshop, let me get the can opener." He looks back at me as he leads Gallant out, smiles, abashed. "Uh, Kid Win. Chris. Hi."

The door closes behind them.

"Hi, Taylor?" I look back and Aegis is standing by the couch, has pulled off his helm-

Oh my god he has _hair_. God, that's gorgeous hair.

"I'm Aegis." He smiles, and I find myself mirroring him. "Also known as Carlos."

"C'mon, _Tryhard._ " I look over to see Vista- _Missy_ staring down Triumphant. She looks- almost _glares_ at him as she turns something over in her head. "Unless you're going to keep that helmet on until you leave the Wards."

He sighs, reaches under his chin for his helmet strap. "...can't believe I'm being shown up by a kid," he grumbles, pulling off his lion's-helm to reveal tawny blonde hair, blue eyes bright and incisive. "I'm Rory. Uh, Triumph in costume."

"Hi." The tension's begins to ebb from my shoulders and legs, sickly relief starting to suffuse me. "It's... it's really great to meet all of you-"

"Hi," the boy standing next to Aegis echoes, his interruption brash, braggadocious. He crosses his arms, the horologist's insets in his armor shifting in synch as he moves.

He smiles under his vintage motorcyclist's helmet, and it's flat, facile; it reminds me of copper-red hair, and unease twists my gut. "I'm Clockblocker, but I guess you didn't need the introduction, huh?"

I try a smile as sweat prickles up my spine. "Your, um, fame precedes you." I gesture at his helmet. "Are you...?"

The muscles in his arms tense, and he shakes his head once, short and sharp. "No."

"Cloooooock..." Missy chides, and I watch his lips thin to a pale line.

"No, Missy. I did the big reveal-deal when Stalker got brought on board." His words are flat, dismissive. "And I've regretted it every second after."

I'm left staring at him, a harsh flush of rejection campfire-hot on my cheeks, even as curiosity perks a Cheshire head.

 _What did she do to you_?

"...speaking of that..." Triumph looks towards me.

"Ancillary. Taylor. I want you to know that everyone here wants the Wards to be a safe space for you. What Shadow Stalker did... we won't let that happen again, I promise."

A prickle of shock works its way up my spine as I parse his words, look over at Missy.

"You _told_ them?" The words lurch off my tongue, sick with reproach.

And now _everyone's_ looking at me again, worse than before because I can see their eyes, now; pity, sympathy, Vista saying something but it doesn't matter because _they know what happened to me_ -

And then there's a hand squeezing mine and a body interposed between me and their eyes, Emma rampant in blazoned red and raised voice of good cheer, the center of attention, the _star_ as she guides me unresisting into a chair and turns me away from view and I can hear them talking as I curl up like a bug in a jar waiting to die-

It hurts, God it fucking _hurts_ , and something inside me wants to crawl-scuttle to my room and sit with my back against the door until they forget I _exist_ and never come out again.

* * *

They're talking and I'm _sitting_ here, shame eating at me like worms in my gut.

 _It was going so well,_ I think as I stare down at my hands. _It was going so well and I screwed it all up_.

"Taylor?" Missy's standing in front of me, pushing a glass of water into my unresisting hands.

I hold the glass, feel her hands clasped around mine, slowly look up and see her nervously smile as her eyes meet mine.

"I'm sorry." The words come out and I see her brow wrinkle slightly, furrowing as she frowns.

"Wh... no, Taylor, _I'm_ sorry." I look down, feel her hands squeeze mine. "It came up last night when I was debriefing and _someone_ must've told Rory about it."

"Oh."

"Just..." I can hear her hesitate, fumbling for the words. "Sophia's kind of a bitch, yeah? And... you shouldn't have to deal with that all on your own."

"...okay."

"Taylor?" I look up at her, find green eyes watching mine. "...can you drink a little water for me? Please?"

I look down at the glass in my hands. Lift it, feel Missy's hands slip away, watch the surface of the water shudder.

"Taylor?"

I take a sip, then another.

I remember to breathe. Try to mirror Missy's nervous smile.

"Better?"

I nod slowly, haltingly. She smiles, and I echo it back at her as it builds to something more confident.

_It's all wrong. Everything's wrong, now._

_But I still have to try._

I kick at the floor, spin myself around to face the table; meet everyone's eyes- _almost_ everyone's, Clockblocker's gone-

"So, uh, C-Carlos." I try not to flinch at how my voice sounds, quavery and hesitant; try not to freeze like a deer in the headlights as heads swivel, attention focuses on me.

A hand finds my shoulder, squeezes, and without looking up I know Emma's with me.

 _I can do this_. I can see the look in their eyes, and I tell myself over and over that it's empathy, _understanding_ , the look in Missy's eyes writ large over all their faces.

 _These could be my friends,_ I tell myself as I smile a smile I don't quite feel.

"I have to ask... what shampoo do you use, Carlos?"


	20. I Get Scared But I'm Not Crawlin' On My Knees

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this was a piece and a half of work. Thanks to OxfordOctopus for kicking off the impetus to get this to where it needed to be, and to Lark, NBBTCS, and HorizonTheTransient for putting up with my repeated outline regurgitation.

I stood in the hallway, heat radiating right through the cardboard sleeve on my cup of tea as I stared at the placard on the door.

KIRSTY SOBOL, it read. WARD LIAISON.

I knocked, heard her call "Come in!"

Kirsty's office was uncluttered, _measured_ as though someone had gone through and picked out furniture and furnishings that seemed calculated for comfort and neutrality; a shelf of action figures on one wall felt like the only real contribution of personalization and colour.

"Taylor." Kirsty looked up from her computer as I came in, smiled at me briefly before turning back to her monitor. She'd pulled her hair up into a sloppy twist that trailed auburn curls down the back of her neck. "Grab a seat, I'm almost done."

I closed the door behind me, lowered myself into one of the chairs facing her desk as she pushed her keyboard away and pulled out a pad and pen.

She looked at me appraisingly, tapping her pen lightly against paper. "Do you have a name you'd prefer to use when we talk like this? Taylor, Ancillary?"

Dry, crisp heat soaked through the cardboard under my fingers; I shifted my grip, walked the pads of my fingers to cooler terrain. "Taylor's okay."

"All right, Taylor. How was your weekend?"

"It was okay. Some of the other Wards stayed the weekend. It was... okay?" I was repeating myself, awkward, uncomfortable, flushed hot like the tea I'm holding.

Kirsty smiled a little. "Not what you expected, huh?"

I thought back to the start of the weekend, sitting with Missy and Carlos and my copy and all their gentle questions. How Missy had smiled at me and talked about how _she's_ still learning stuff about her power and she's been a Ward longer than _anyone_.

 _"Really?" Carlos asked, an easy smile on his lips. "Longer than me, or Gallant?"_  
_She sniffed. "I've spent more of my life as a Ward than you have. It totally counts."_

How Gallant- no, it was _Dean_ , had dragged Chris out of his workshop and we'd sat in the Wards common area and ate Friday's leftover pizza while Dean told the story about the one time he'd had to pretend to be a tinker for the cameras.

"No," I finally said, an echo of her smile on my lips. "It wasn't what I expected."

"It sounds like you're finding your place," she said. "I'm glad that's working for you." Her pen flicked across her pad as she made a note.

"I wanted to meet with you like this as a way of getting a clean start to the week, get us both up to speed on your situation." She glanced down at her pad. "So, first things first. It's Columbus Day, so you don't have school today- in fact, you don't have school this week: I talked with your father, and he's okay with pulling you out for a few days while we get you through testing and evaluations. It's going to be a planned absence, not a vacation, so you'll still have class assignments to keep you a little busy."

Something curdled inside me when she mentioned Dad, tying cramping knots in my gut. "Oh."

"How are you doing on clothes? I know you had a bag packed, but you're probably starting to run low on things to wear."

"No, Ca-, uh, Aegis showed me the laundry alcove, so I can just wash things as they get dirty."

Kirsty was watching me, her pen motionless. "Still, you packed... what, two, three outfits? Having a wardrobe can be a nice thing." She blinked, looked down at her pad. "Maybe later this afternoon we can swing around to your place and you can pick up some more clothes."

I stared down into my paper cup, into the gently swirling little black flecks that had escaped my teabag.

"Taylor?"

I looked up, lifting my gaze from cup to desk to pad to pen to Kirsty, looking at me with gentle care, and I found myself asking "...can we go when my dad's at work?"

The look in her eyes shifted, became the kind of soft professional concern that says _I know something's wrong_.

"...if there's something going on at home, we can help," she finally says.

For a moment, I considered telling her about what had happened: how I'd come home and Dad was there and he got _worse_ and I couldn't handle it, couldn't bear being around him.

 _But it wasn't_ bad _,_ I thought. _It wasn't_ abuse _, not like she's thinking, and if I mention anything it's just going to cause trouble for everyone when he didn't do_ anything-

"Getting powers," Kirsty said, "can put a lot of strain on a relationship, especially with your parents." She hesitated, came to some internal decision. "I can't speak as to specifics because of confidentiality, but you might try talking to some of the other Wards about what's going on."

I thought about Missy, how she'd stuck around with me for almost the whole weekend; I thought about how I'd asked about her parents, if they were _okay with that_.

I thought about how her lips had compressed to a taut line of displeasure when I'd asked.

"We can move on from that, if you like."

Kirsty's words bring me back; lift my gaze from her desk, look into her eyes, warm and brown and quiet and filled with something that felt like understanding.

"I wanted to talk to you about your future." She paused, her eyes searching my face. "Specifically, about your education."

I stared at her; heard the words, one after the other, _about-your-education_ , didn't understand them until I repeated them back under my breath.

My education.

I was a Ward.

Wards went to-

A smile pulled at the corners of my mouth, helpless and enthused. "You mean _Arcadia_."

She smiled slightly. "Eventually, yes."

I felt a frown start to tug at my brow. "Eventually?"

Kirsty looked at me; her smile faded, left her sober, sympathetic, understanding, but still the authority. "Taylor... you're not going to like this, but I think you should stay at Winslow for now."

" _Why?_ " The word erupted from my lips, frustrated and plaintive. "Arcadia's the best school in the city, it's where the Wards go, and you want me to stay at _Winslow?_ "

"Arcadia's the top-rated public school in the district, yes... that means it can be a demanding academic environment, even for a student who's not behind on their coursework."

Unease started to churn inside me as Kirsty looked down at her pad, then back up at me; I saw something in her eyes, and it made my power itch inside me.

"Taylor... I've seen your grades, and I have concerns about how well you'd handle a transfer."

Something inside me twisted, drew tight like a knot drawn in wet cloth; tears pricked at my eyes, and all I could think was _it's not my fault_ , that it was finally going to be over and I was going to be _gone_ and Emma was still holding me back-

"...just concerned with how much further this would disrupt your life: you have powers now, you're a W _ard_ now, there's the ongoing situation with your family situation, with your father-"

_Dad._

God, that was- that was _my fault_ ; if I hadn't given up, if I hadn't run away, if I'd just put up with my dad like I had Emma...

_...maybe I'd be free._

I opened my mouth; the words didn't come, I couldn't speak, I couldn't _breathe_ -

-and a hand rested on my shoulder, squeezed gently; I looked up, and it was Emma, _my_ Emma, smiling down at me as tears blurred my vision.

There was movement; I heard Emma pull over a chair, sit next to me, the soft-surf sound of a tissue pulled from a box and stuffed into my hand.

I leaned into her, felt the armrest of the chair dig into my ribs as her arm stretched over my shoulders.

"How long were you thinking?" Emma asked, and I felt tension crawl up my spine, the muscles in my neck singing like suspension cables. Emma looked back at me: sympathetic, understanding, her eyes _knowing_ in a way that didn't touch that rawness inside me.

 _Trust me_ , she mouthed.

Kirsty hesitated, looked between the two of us. "I'm thinking end of the year. Your school already has tutoring and academic support programs that we can get you enrolled in; that gives you a little over two months to get used to things and improve your academics. Then, when you're in a more stable position, we get you out of Winslow and transferred to Arcadia over the winter break."

She looked over at Emma, then back at me, met my gaze. "Taylor... how does this sound to you?"

"I-" The words choked in my throat and her eyes were on me, waiting for me to respond and I _couldn't_ ; Emma's arm tightened around me in wordless sympathy, and I swallowed through a fist of sandpaper.

"I'm asking because this is something that has to be your decision, Taylor." Her gaze flicked to Emma again, came back to me. "You have to be the one to choose, because you're going to be the one with her boots on the ground; you're going to be the one going to school every day, and I can't be with you every step of the way."

Kirsty took a breath. "If you don't feel like you can do this, if you feel like Winslow isn't a good place for you? I _will_ make your transfer to Arcadia happen."

For a moment, I considered it. Thought about looking at Kirsty and saying 'Do it, get me out of there' and riding out of Winslow on a booster rocket made from spite.

My heart pounded, pulse throbbing in tight-clenched fists as nausea twisted in my gut... but the tension of the moment was fading, leaving me sick and sort of empty.

I got to _choose_. Where I ended up was my decision. _Mine_.

And... it sucked to admit it, but Kirsty wasn't wrong; it had been less than a week and I already felt like I was running a red queen's race, having to work to tread water before the floodgates had even opened.

Kirsty's logic hurt; part of me didn't want to consider it, didn't want to engage with that brutal pragmatism and _evaluate_ my situation-

But Emma had. My Emma, _me_ , was there with me, _was_ me. Someone who understood, who was in a better place than I was, who was fingers twined with mine and safety I could lean into, a soft voice calling me _little owl_ and a note in my mother's handwriting that was just what I needed.

It was my choice.

I chose.

I opened my mouth; started to speak, listened to it come out as a strangled, scratchy croak. Emma squeezed my hand, silent, supportive.

"I'll go," I finally managed. "I'll go back. But... I want to be safe."

Kirsty's brow furrowed, lips parted as she started to ask-

I broke in before she can say anything, forcing the words out in staccato. "I'm- I tried to get them to do something and they _didn't_ , so why am I going to be safe going _back_ -"

The words caught in my throat and Emma squeezed my hand, smiled and let it drain from her face.

"You see, there's these three girls," Emma said, her voice metered and cool in a way mine couldn't be. "And they've made it their _job_ to harass me: they've made it difficult to focus in class, they've stolen or destroyed my schoolwork... they've interfered with my education, and I- _we're_ not comfortable with the idea of going back unless that harassment stops."

She had Kirsty's attention; Emma just looked at her, calm and composed even as her fingers tightened around mine.

"If it wasn't for what they did," she said, "I wouldn't be here today."

And for a long moment, Kirsty just looked at the both of us.

"All right," she said finally. "Let's talk about what you would find an acceptable solution, and we can plan out how to present it to Principal Blackwell."


	21. Stranger Than Your Sympathy

_October 12th_

Danny Hebert sets his dinner plans down on the kitchen table with a heavy thump: a stack of books purporting to be introductions to family law, fresh off library hold.

Food for thought.

He opens the fridge; stares at the solitary bottle of IPA from when Kurt came by last year.

He closes the fridge, turns to the kitchen counter for the kettle.

Tea is harder than he remembers: he stares at the wall for what feels like a few seconds before the kettle pipes at him, screaming shrill and insistent like a little baby bird.

Kettle comes off the burner; he fills a mug he's just cleaned with boiling water, tries to sink a teabag, ends up dunking it up and down like a fisherman with a cheap lure to get it to soak and steep.

He thinks back through his day. How the social worker had asked him to come in, to 'tell his side'.

How that had fallen apart as soon as he'd sat down, as soon as he'd opened his mouth and nothing he said made any difference to how she saw him, how he told her about trying to keep his Taylor safe, trying to do the right thing and she just _looked_ at him across her desk.

He's reminded of when he was a kid, the dumbass stuff he did lost to memory, but he remembers the police officer who pulled him aside 'for a little talk', how there was that sense, that _knowing_ that anything he said was just going to bury him, deeper and deeper.

He couldn't _stop_ talking; had to explain, had to get across _his side_.

And the price he paid?

He looks in his mug, sees how amber's shaded darker than he intended.

 _Too steep_ , he thinks.

Honey doesn't help with the taste, but he needs it anyways: needs something to coat his throat, ease the rawness.

He takes the phone off the cradle, dials a number, lets it ring.

"M'lo," a man mumbles.

"Gary? It's Daniel. I know it's late on a weeknight, but-"

"Danny!" Gary's voice is friendly, warm like a good blanket and gently scratching with line noise. "No, no, it's all right. I gave you my number in case something came up?"

"Yeah." It's the only word he manages to get out.

Gary's voice softens, quiets. "Want to talk about it?"

"You were right." Danny tells him about the meeting with the social worker, how he kept trying, how he kept talking and it didn't seem to change how she saw him.

Gary's quiet, listens, gives Danny the space to form his words, connect things together at his own pace.

"This is something the PRT capitalizes on," Gary says, once Danny's stumbled to a halt. "They facilitate situations where your kid gets placed into conflict with you, something stressful happens and they use your child's welfare as a way to drive a wedge between you."

He pauses. Continues. "This isn't your fault, Danny."

"I'm the one who _put her there_ , Gary." The plastic housing on the handset creaks under his fingers. "I've thought about taking her out, but-"

 _But then she wouldn't be safe_.

"Danny, signing Taylor up for the Wards was the right decision. The PRT can give her that safety, can give her support that's outside your means... but just because it's the -only- option you had doesn't mean they should get to make unilateral choices. It doesn't mean they should get to leave you with the fear that if you don't do what they want, they're going to leave her unprotected."

"I know. I _know_." He passes a hand over his face, "I... god, I'm head of hiring for a union, I'm used to dealing with assholes. But this is.. _."_

"It's different."

"Yeah."

"Because it's Taylor."

"...yeah."

"You're not the first person to go through this, Danny. The Guard's been here before. We've helped families in situations just like yours."

"We're here for _you_ , Danny."

"Yeah," Danny says again, voice rough, eyes blurred.

"It's getting late. Have you eaten?" Gary finally asks.

"No, I... I just got home." He looks over at the pile of books. "I was going to do some dinner and reading."

"Which, anything good?"

"I went to the library, picked up some of the ones you suggested when we met."

"Oh. That's good, I'm glad you're being proactive about this... but I know this can be stressful, okay? It's okay to take the night off-"

"No." Danny swallows. "I- I need to get some kind of handle on this."

"All right."

"...you're a good man, Gary."

Gary chuckles, the sound crackly, ruffled with static. "Only as good as the people I help. G'night, Danny."

They hang up, and Danny sits down to dinner: reheated leftovers, a library book.

And across from him, an empty chair.

* * *

_October 18th_

Six days later, Danny waits outside Winslow's front doors, breath puffing in the cold morning air.

He watches a gunmetal sedan pull in, park; watches as two figures exit the car, start crossing the parking lot towards him.

He only has eyes for one of them.

Taylor.

It's the first time he's seen her in... God, it's been _ten days_ , over a week since the last time he's seen her.

Over a week since she's been home.

Over a week since she left.

Danny looks her over: the knit cap pulled down tight over her head, jeans and a sweatshirt in shapeless earth tones and a bulging backpack that looks better suited for an expedition than a school day.

She looks... _better_ , he thinks, but he's looking at her and he can't work out the why. The last he remembers of her, the last time he really _remembers_ seeing her is when he opened the front door and found her on his doorstep, tear-stained, small with fatigue and trembling with emotion.

And that's it.

That's his basis for comparison.

Danny thinks of the months before now, the _years_ before now, and Taylor's just a daughter-shaped blur in his memories, black curls and mumbled answers to questions he never put any energy into asking. He doesn't remember her-- hell, he remembers his _wife_ better than his daughter, the thought of her like a brand in his mind.

He remembers Annette, the thing that _looked_ like Annette, coming all to pieces in front of him, her laughter bitter and biting.

_"There's nothing you can do to get me back."_

He wrenches himself back into the now, realizes Taylor's about to walk past him, jaw clenched and shoulders set with more than the weight of her backpack.

"Are you doing okay? Taylor?"

The words slip out of him, and she freezes, turns, looks at him.

She looks at him, and her face is set in frustrated exasperation, the look of the teenager who doesn't _need_ parenting,

She _looks_ at him, and the distaste and revulsion in her gaze hits him with almost physical force.

And then she's gone, through the door and into the Winslow hallways.

Danny catches the door as it swings closed behind her, holds it for her handler, Ms. Sobol; she gives him an apologetic look, and he follows the two of them in.

He's distracted as he tails Taylor through empty, echoing halls, still struggling to understand the rejection he saw in her eyes.

He doesn't realize anything's wrong until they reach the principal's office, start to go inside.

He doesn't realize anything's wrong until he looks back, sees Taylor's face; until she looks up at him, eyes wide and scared like when his little girl came into their bedroom after a nightmare.

For a moment, they connect.

And then Sobol, her handler, interjects herself; pulls Taylor back, sits her down in a waiting room chair.

She has her describe the things around her, what she sees and hears and feels and smells; Danny watches as Taylor's eyes flit about the room, how her gaze slides off him like butter on a hot pan; how she shifts in her chair, hands sliding from one thing to another, the cant of her head like when she listens to birdsong.

Her handler has her close her eyes, has her _breathe_.

And Danny watches his daughter bury herself all over again. He watches her calm, watches her walls come back up.

He watches his little girl disappear inside the teenager who despises him, as his daughter turns into someone who looks to a stranger for support rather than him.

And he listens to her explain that she can't go in there. She _can't_.

Principal Blackwell stands in the doorway to her office, and Danny feels that sick sense of anger twist in him as she sourly comments about appointments and schedules and delays, at how she doesn't seem to _care_ like someone responsible would.

Sobol's still there, next to Taylor. "We can reschedule-"

"Don't," Taylor says, her voice drained like she's three days into a fever. She looks up at the three of them, hugging her backpack to her chest like a shield.

And Danny listens to her explain that she doesn't want to schedule this all over again and have it looming over her. How she doesn't want to have to think about going in there again.

He watches her look at the doorway to the principal's office, how she looks to her handler. The hope in her eyes as she offers a suggestion: that they have the meeting without her. That _she_ goes in, meets with Danny and Principal Blackwell while Taylor waits out here.

It's a moment before the other woman's hand finds his daughter's shoulder, palms and squeezes in measured reassurance.

"Taylor... it's important you're here for this. That you have a say, that... your input _matters_ here, Taylor."

He hears Blackwell cough behind him.

And Taylor looks at her handler.

"You know what I need, though. This is why we had all those meetings in your office, why we had the talk in the car. To work out what my goals were, what I needed."

Danny sees the softness in her eyes.

"You know what I need as well as I do," Taylor says, her voice quiet. "I trust you."

And something in how she says it strikes Danny as _wrong_ ; her handler _can't_ care, can't have her best interests at heart.

Not the way he does.

"Mr. Hebert?"

He looks back at Principal Blackwell, still in the doorway to her office.

"Is this acceptable? You're her guardian, it's up to you."

And for just a second, Danny wants to seize the moment: put his foot down, demand that the meeting include his daughter or not happen at all, just for the sake of provocation. Just for the sake of the look on her principal's face as he upsets her plans.

He's smarter than that, though; as appealing as it is, it's a plan that makes him no friends, that aggravates and delays and gains him nothing in the long run.

It upsets plans and it gives Taylor a say in the meeting that finally happens, and Danny knows his daughter well enough to know that wouldn't be good for her; he knows that Taylor's brooding, sullen, angry; that she's not in a place to make good decisions about her future.

"Okay," he says. Goes to rest a hand on her other shoulder, stops at the glare she gives him. "I'll see you in a bit."

And the three of them go into Blackwell's office; Danny looks back, sees Taylor watching as the door closes behind them.

It starts as a subtle thing; a creeping sense of unease, a sense of _threat_ for reasons he can't pin down, how something about Blackwell's office feels _wrong_.

And then they all sit down.

 _Blackwell_ sits down, and her chair _creaks_ the way it did when he laid Taylor to rest there.

Danny's mouth is suddenly very dry as he says, "I'm starting to have second thoughts about this."

Two pairs of eyes fall on him as he starts to lay out his thinking.

"How is Taylor _safe_ here?" he starts, improvising as he remembers the wide whiteness of her eyes. "How can she be safe when she can't even come to you without having a _panic attack?_ How is she supposed to _learn_ if she's _terrified?_ "

"...after the incident," Blackwell says, "we've started taking steps to make sure the situation doesn't escalate to this level again."

Danny notices she isn't a fiddler, her palms pressed down against a suspiciously-clear desk blotter.

"We've changed class schedules, separated the students to limit their ability to interact with each other."

Principal Blackwell looks at him and says, "Nobody wants this to happen again, Mr. Hebert. I'll be speaking with the faculty and the students so everyone understands the severity of the situation and the consequences of acting out again."

She never names names, never mentions Taylor or Emma or any of the other girls; she talks about 'student safety' without talking about how anything she's covered will make _Taylor_ safe.

Danny stares at her, tries to maintain some level of professionality because this is a negotiation and he can't just _retort_ , call her on her bullshit, _rip into her_ for not even _addressing his concerns_.

"Danny. Danny?" He looks over at Sobol, who's got an encouraging smile just for him.

"I know you're worried about her... but you need to understand that things are _different_ for Taylor, now. She's a Ward now, and that means her circumstances are going to get a lot more consideration."

She looks to Principal Blackwell. "We can work something out, I imagine? Use another office, or have a teacher or myself as an intermediary she can contact if she's having trouble?"

And even as Taylor's handler does this, even as she engages with him and folds his concerns into hers... Danny realizes it's all facile, superficial.

Danny realizes that _he's an afterthought here._

That he's superfluous, that his presence here isn't to allow him to contribute, but to be _informed_.

That Sobol and Blackwell have already made their decisions, come to their conclusions, made policies determined through phonecalls and emails he wasn't privy to, through channels never meant for him.

That they haven't thought about _him._

And he's _furious_ , burning with realization; he wants to stand up and kick his chair away and howl truth at power.

He doesn't. He remembers Gary, lets that memory be an anchor: that he can't- well, he _shouldn't_ , that Danny needs to maintain his image if he wants to convince people it's okay for Taylor to come home again.

He banks his fury, subsides, listens to them talk; listens to them lay out goals and action items that he would have been on board with if only he'd had a role in making them in the first place.

He makes himself smile, forces himself to look over changed class schedules as they go over the things that will make Taylor safe, point by point.

He listens to them as they enumerate the programs available to Taylor to help her improve her academics, as Principal Blackwell mentions the framework they already have in place for other students, the study halls and tutors that now have a place on her schedule.

And as things start to wrap up, Danny finally tries to put voice to what's been eating at him.

To contribute in a way that _matters_.

"What if none of this works?" he asks. "You're taking all these steps, all these precautions- what if they don't work out the way you expect?"

Sobol looks at him, her face set in sympathy.

"Danny... I know that you're worried for Taylor here, but you don't have to be. This- being here, this is something Taylor _wants_. A transfer's on the table, and she wanted to try and stick it out here."

She smiles at him. "She's stronger than you think, Danny. You should be proud of her."

And that appraisal, that _appreciation_ , rankles at him; the idea that she knows his daughter better than he does fits like a keystone two sizes too small.

"Taylor stays at Winslow as long as she feels comfortable doing so. And if that changes, we'll make it work or we'll find an alternative."

Blackwell shifts in her seat, uncomfortable; her chair creaks again, and Danny rubs his hands on his slacks and tries to forget how his daughter's disintegrating flesh felt like greased satin under his hands.

"I guess that makes sense," he says.

The meeting ends with a handshake all around; Sobol's saying something to Blackwell about getting to talk with some of Taylor's teachers, but Danny can't care about that right now.

He comes out of the office like he's on the end of a spring, sees Taylor sitting right where he left her, bag open at her feet and a book open on her lap.

She looks up as the door opens.

She closes her book on a finger tip and she looks up at him; for a moment, something in her face reminds him of Annette, and he realizes:

She got through this _without him_.

Taylor looks up at him, and of all the things he could say, the words that come out are "When are you coming home?"

He watches a muscle in her jaw flex, sees the ease fade from her features as her shoulders set like concrete; her face looks the way his feels, hard eyes and thinned lips.

"I'm not."

Two words, and she fills them with _loathing_.

He's about to reply when Sobol puts a hand on his arm. "Danny, we can work on this; we can talk about this, but pressuring her isn't going to help."

"She's my _daughter_.' It's a plea, an attempt at justification.

And Taylor's handler smiles gently. "I know. Give me a call and we can try figuring out a visitation schedule when she's a little more... together."

He looks back at his daughter, and he sees the glint of satisfaction in her eyes as he backs down, as she smiles in vicious contentment.

"You have my number?"

He affirms, watches her go over to Taylor and update her on the meeting 'results': Changed classes, new schedule, tutoring period at the end of the day.

"Pretty much like we thought it would go," Taylor murmurs, and her handler nods.

"Are you going to be all right, being on your own for the rest of the day?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine as long as I don't have to go to the principal's office."

There's a hemp bite to her gallows humor, but her handler laughs anyway. "I know this is a big step for you, Taylor. If anything comes up..."

Something in Danny's gut twists at the look Taylor gives her, that over-familiar exasperation that isn't loaded with contempt.

"Nothing's _going_ to come up. I'll be _fine_ ; it's been days since I let someone slip, and if something does happen-"

"-I'm here if you need me," her handler finishes, warm, kind, caring.

And the way Taylor _responds_ to her, how the light in her eyes warms, how her lips pull into that gentle almost-smile-

It turns something inside him; he looks at his daughter and her handler and all he can think is _that should be_ ** _me_**.

He looks down at his daughter, says goodbye.

She doesn't.

Danny Hebert walks the empty hallways of Winslow, already planning a call to Gary to talk about visitation rights.

* * *

_October 21st_

_"They're going to say that you need to respect your daughter's boundaries, that you need to give her the space she needs to work things through."_

Danny Hebert sits in a PRT conference room, alone.

For now.

He sits in a conference room, alone, and he waits to see his daughter.

_"The thing is, they're not wrong, Danny. Trauma like what she's gone through, you need time to work that out. Just a coincidence that it keeps her separated from you."_

Taylor's handler was waiting for him in the lobby when he arrived; brought him up to the conference room, pulled out a chair opposite him.

"I'm sorry," she starts.

Danny listens as she tries to talk to him, about 'starting on the wrong foot' and 'wanting to clear the air.'

About how she believes he has a place in Taylor's life, how she _wants_ him to see his daughter again.

How she wants this to work out between them.

And she's _trying_ ; trying to connect, to build that rapport between them.

_Gary chuckles, and it's tinged with frustration. "A system is what it does, Danny. Don't forget that. Don't forget that she still needs you."_

Danny forces himself to smile, a contortion of his mouth that doesn't touch his eyes. "Miss Sobol-"

"Kirsty." She smiles back at him. "Please."

"Kirsty, then." He fixes the smile on his face, feels himself slipping into the mindset he used for meeting with CEOs, lawyers: what Annette had called his 'urbane cowboy' facade, smooth and suave and untouchable.

"I appreciate what you've done for Taylor," he says.

He mirrors her concern, echoes her tone, gives her _nothing_ as he mouths uncommitted platitudes, as he sympathizes without ever being sorry.

Blackwell would be proud.

He gets to say his piece; gets to watch as Kirsty's smile goes from genuine and open to fixed and plastic.

He gets to watch her realize that her words don't matter, that her overtures are falling on deaf ears.

So she changes tack, reorients. Throws him a bone, a manila folder blazoned with the PRT shield and stamped CONFIDENTIAL; leaves him with that 'while she goes to get Taylor.'

Danny opens the folder, begins reading; it takes him a minute to understand, to see FONT on a header and ANCILLARY in a paragraph and a government-standard photo of Taylor in her knit cap and eyemask, staring blearily at the camera.

He looks at the papers, but they don't hold any answers for him: master, stranger, mover, changer, a thousand enumerations and elaborations on _what_ she can do, but not _why_.

There's nothing in there that tells him why she won't come home.

He re-reads through them again, work hat on: reading less for understanding and more for what Gary calls 'actionable material'.

And then he hears the latch click free; the door opens, and Kirsty returns, Taylor in tow behind her.

He sees Taylor and the urbane cowboy becomes a calving glacier, his icy professionalism cracking apart because she's his _daughter_ , he's allowed to miss her _._

She pulls out a chair opposite his, sits with ill grace; he's aware of Kirsty in his periphery, down at the far end of the table. Giving them distance.

Maintaining a presence.

He struggles, forces himself into composure now that Taylor's here, now that Kirsty's watching.

Burying himself in professionalism, because he's on the clock again.

 _"Visitation does double duty, Danny. They let you see your daughter, but they get to see_ you _at the same time. They get to evaluate how you interact with her."_

He tries to ignore Kirsty; focuses on Taylor, slouched in her chair, denim-jacketed shoulders hunched up to her ears, PRT ballcap pulled low as she stares down at the table.

She's wearing a mask, one of the stick-on ones with her glasses jammed in place on top.

He watches her fingers twist like dying things, nails picking and flicking at her cuticles in quick little spasms.

"You don't need the mask," he says; tries to ignore how she tenses, how she freezes at the sound of his voice.

He tries to keep his voice soft, edgeless, unthreatening. "I mean, I already know who you are."

The words hit and he watches as she lifts her head, glares at him with that impotent adolescent loathing-

Her gaze flickers to the far end of the table, back to him, and Danny watches as the glasses come off and the mask peels away.

 _She looks better_ , he thinks; better than she did three days ago, the softened dark under her eyes suggesting she's gotten some rest, some respite.

"How are things? Are they treating you all right?"

She nods, wordless.

"...do you need anything from home? Anything I can get y-"

"No." She throws the word between them. "I'm fine."

The words come out sharp, bristling; the conversational tack you'd take for a panhandler or a pamphleteer as you walked past with your hands jammed in your pockets.

And Danny founders, just for a moment; looks down at his hands, at the paperwork under them.

"They're calling you Font, now?" he asks, watches the brim of her cap incline in agreement.

"Yeah."

"Why'd they have you change it?" He keeps his tone light, leaves the door open for her to engage.

And it works.

He listens as she starts explaining that it was _her_ idea; about the meeting with Mrs. Ryder over in Image she'd had a few days ago, about working out the themes she wants to convey.

That the name was _her_ idea.

He listens and he smiles, because he knew it all along; it's right there in the file Kirsty gave him.

He hates that he has to do it. How he has to play the clueless dad to get her to open up, a gentle provocation, a white lie where he misses something and she gets to correct him, feel like she has the upper hand.

It's something he's meant to use in the boardroom, not with his daughter; plays of strength and weakness, gambits, calculated baiting.

But _damn_ if it doesn't work: how she responds to his words like desert flowers after rain, grey and drab and now brimming with an almost-painful vivacity.

_"I can get you in the door, Danny. I can pull some strings, get you in to see your daughter. But... you need to know, it's going to be like kindergarten, all over again." Gary takes a sip of his coffee, watches Danny through his half-rims. "It's not about what gets learned - it's about playing well with others. Showing you can get along."_

"...also gets Clockblocker off my back with his 'antsy Larry' jokes." She's smiling, relaxed. Settled.

He can see his daughter, peeping through the edges; he can see something in her eyes, a sour twist to her voice as she mentions the other Ward.

"Everything's okay, there? With the Wards?"

And he watches her come back to herself - she looks at him, really _looks_ at him, realizing who she's talking to, reminding herself of why she's here.

And he watches her enthusiasm wither on the vine, watches her face set like the fingers in a closing fist.

"It's fine."

She says she's fine, but he notices how her eyes flicker, how she glances at Kristy.

Parents notice things like that.

He knows she's hiding things from him, things he could help with if she'd only _tell_ him what was wrong.

He could help; it wouldn't be like before, where she keeps things from him, holds them inside her until things fall apart and he sees her on the stairs, bare-headed-

He hears a sound, brashfully abrasive like a cockatoo concussing itself against one of those wooden xylophones.

Taylor reaches into her pocket, pulls out-

-a cell phone.

She looks down at the display, smiles to herself, and starts typing with her thumbs.

Starts texting in the middle of their conversation, sweet as you please.

 _She has a cell phone_.

He remembers photos, a windshield spiderwebbed in stars.

It feels like that must have been, like high-speed photography capturing safety glass shattering: that disconnected sense of impact, the way the cracks spread faster than the shutter can capture.

Taylor _has a cell phone_.

He listens to the sound of keys clicking under her fingertips.

"Where did you get a cell phone?" His lips are numb, the words distant in his ears like he's listening to someone else speak.

She stops typing, looks up at him. "Oh, I got one because I'm a Ward." She smiles, thin and cold. "Thanks for signing me up, _Dad_."

"...who is it?"

Her smile widens as she says, "Oh, just a friend I made."

And the way she says it, the way she looks right into his eyes and says _friend_ and _made_ , Danny _knows_ she's talking about one of her 'copies'.

Danny isn't stupid. Not by a long shot, he isn't.

He can see the pattern here: the timing, how all the elements come together. Interrupting _their_ time together, using a cell phone, using her _copy_.

How the feel of it is almost _rehearsed_ , how Taylor has this practiced nonchalance as she goes back to her phone when he _knows_ she's never owned one before.

He glances at Kirsty, reads the surprise in her face and posture: she's paying attention to this, but she's not _involved_ the way Danny is.

_"Your behavior, how you react around your daughter, is a significant factor in determining when she comes home."_

And understanding begins to gel; he looks back at Taylor and how she smiles at him, sweetness and light and tight vicious _triumph_ , and he realizes that this is _provocation_ , something intended to push his buttons, aggravate him into losing his temper over something as small as a teenager with a cell phone.

And the worst part is that it's _working_ ; she's dropped a brick on his gas pedal and he can feel how his heart is beating, how...

...how he has to sit there and _smile_ as his daughter savages him and her handler looks on and he has to endure it, take the high ground and look like the better person so he can get his Taylor home.

So he can get Taylor _home_ , where it's just the two of them, together again.

No handlers, no powers, no Kirsty or copies.

Just him and her and a chance to finally talk things out.

Like family.

Danny Hebert sits there and fixes a smile on his face and thinks about how that moment can't come soon enough.


	22. And All These Thoughts You Stole From Me

From: lgarvey@ene.prt.gov  
To: jbooth@ene.prt.gov  
Date: 10/8/2010, 10:11 AM  
Subject: prelim rating eval for new parahuman  
Flagged: PRIORITY

I just got confirmation that officers brought in a new parahuman after an incident at Winslow HS, and I need you to do a workup.

You can find the witness statements and Stalker's debrief in the usual intake directory.

Send me your results and cc the director, she's expressed a personal interest in this one... not surprising since Stalker was injured.

Dr. Lloyd Garvey, ENE Research Lead

####

From: jbooth@ene.prt.gov  
To: jbooth@ene.prt.gov  
Date: 10/8/2010, 10:45 AM  
Subject: new phman notes

negative CRBN panels on admit, no rush on testing

SS transcript w/ dispatch warns abt. Master, Stranger

Init. witness rpts:  
* Genned minion, duplicating another student  
** cnfrm master, stranger  
* father was hostile, engaged SS - compulsion effect? MS panel clean  
* duration/persistence? How does it 'fall apart'???  
***original fell apart? Not copy/duplicate??  
 ~~Copy~~  
Duplicate  
 ~~dopplegagner~~

Post-apprehension video, PRT squad on intake:  
* Copy becomes original?  
* 'peeling' is similar to how orig fell apart?  
** timescale: how -long- to fall apart like this?  
** better CAMERAS  
** langer/kraissl lines?  
* new 'original' uninjured? Brute?

Joan Booth, Analyst III-P

####

From: jbooth@ene.prt.gov  
To: jbooth@ene.prt.gov  
Date: 10/8/2010, 1:04 PM  
Subject: re: new phman notes

Interview w/... MM?:  
* CE seems p. clear; context?  
* gen matches to witness stmts  
* Ref. POV swap: original and copy switch? How much?  
** If physical swap, do injuries carry? (Brute again)  
* 'falling apart' - are there decomp products?  
** is this from duration expiring, integrity loss, inability to maintain? (was tranked - consciousness a factor?)  
* HS cam for rec when copy appears  
* what happens to air? displacement?  
* _duration_ \- copy genned during interview lasts... hour?  
**compare w/ timeline, stmts, dispatch trscript timecodes  
* makes copy - orig decomp, copy becomes orig again  
** does decomp here differ from one in witness stmts?  
* email intake?- video missing metadata

Joan Booth, Analyst III-P

####

From: jbooth@ene.prt.gov  
To: lgarvey@ene.prt.gov  
CC: epiggot@ene.prt.gov  
Date: 10/8/2010, 1:28 PM  
Subject: New Parahuman - Power Analysis

Dr. Garvey, I completed my initial workup as you requested.

She's definitely master, stranger: it looks like she creates a minion that duplicates another person, with high enough fidelity to fool casual observation.

After a variable amount of time, her original body fragments and disintegrates; the minion sheds the appearance of the other person and becomes a new 'original', with her original appearance.

We can't push for powers testing. Intake didn't find any immediate threat when we brought her in, but here are some notes for if she's cooperative and consents to testing in the future:

We're going to want to run the PACS batteries for master and stranger for sure. Probably changer, maybe mover, -maybe- brute? I'm curious about the persistence of injuries when the copy becomes the new original.

Make sure you get out the highspeed recording cart. The holding cell cameras didn't catch a lot of detail when she made a copy, it happens pretty fast. See if you can get more footage of the originals and duplicates

You're going to want sampling kits, too - there might be decomposition products when the 'original' breaks down and the 'duplicate' changes back into her.

Specific questions I'd be interested in:

  * So far, she's only duplicated that one girl, the redhead. Can she do anyone else? Bigger people? Smaller ones?
  * How long do her duplicates exist for? The witness statements from the school and the transcript from dispatch suggest a duration in minutes, but the video from when she was in holding shows her lasting over an hour.
  * This might be an integrity factor? The one that fell apart at the school was injured, so that might be contributing. Probably see about folding that into your brute testing request.
  * Losing consciousness might have disrupted her power - she was sedated prior to being brought in, and that might have been a contributing factor.
  * This is more covering-bases than anything else, but does she duplicate parahumans? Their powers?



Joan Booth, Analyst III-P

####

From: pryder@ene.prt.gov  
To: epiggot@ene.prt.gov  
CC: lgarvey@ene.prt.gov, ksobol@ene.prt.gov  
Date: 10/8/2010, 1:43 PM  
Subject: re: New Ward

Based on what the analysts have provided, we're giving her the cape name 'Ancillary'.

I'll get the team preparing for a media workup like you wanted, but it's going to be brainstorms and thumb twiddles until we get a better idea of what she can do.

Phyllis Ryder, ENE Image Lead

####

From: ksobol@ene.prt.gov  
To: lgarvey@ene.prt.gov  
CC: epiggot@ene.prt.gov  
Date: 10/9/2010, 2:24 PM  
Subject: Ancillary and testing availability

Dr. Garvey:

We have a new parahuman who's signed up as a Ward and is going by the name 'Ancillary'.

She's going to be on-site for at least next week, so get back to me on when we can schedule power testing for her?

Kirsty Sobol, Ward Liaison

####

From: lgarvey@ene.prt.gov  
To: ksobol@ene.prt.gov  
Date: 10/12/2010, 8:31 AM  
Subject: re: Ancillary and testing availability

I spent most of the morning doing testing workup while Laurel was getting kit together. We can start in the afternoon if she's available, or I can start blocking out time later in the week if that's more convenient.

(also, working on a _Saturday_??? You could not pay me enough.)

Dr. Lloyd Garvey, ENE Research Lead

####

From: lgarvey@ene.prt.gov  
To: jbooth@ene.prt.gov  
Date: 10/12/2010, 8:48 AM  
Subject: re: New Parahuman - Power Analysis

I realize that I'm getting back to you on this after the weekend, but I just wanted to say that both the director and I appreciate the quick turnaround you managed on Friday.

She's coming back in for testing this week, so I'm going to start working out the test panels for that... there was an incident report over the weekend related to her, so could you take a quick look at that and give me a run-down?

She's signed on as a ward and her cape name is Ancillary, so use that to look up her files

(A note on Brute testing: unfortunately, we need consent for something like that, and that requires an IRB pass (and probably Guard oversight). I can ask her about it during the testing interviews and use her self-report to see if we can get further testing done.)

Dr. Lloyd Garvey, ENE Research Lead

####

From: jbooth@ene.prt.gov  
To: lgarvey@ene.prt.gov  
CC: ksobol@ene.prt.gov  
Date: 10/12/2010, 10:16 AM  
Subject: re: re: New Parahuman - Power Analysis

Dr. Garvey:

She's definitely acting like a Stranger - plays distraction, escapes while wearing another face. Did we have anyone monitoring the house?

This also settles that question about whether she only duplicated the one girl: Vista's debrief indicates she made a duplicate of her father.

Side note, definitely think about terminology with this one - I keep saying 'duplicate' when as far as I can tell, the duplicate -becomes- the original, which feels problematic. Maybe bring this up with Image?

Joan Booth, Analyst III-P

####

From: it_autoresponse@ene.prt.gov  
To: jbooth@ene.prt.gov  
Date: 10/12/2010, 10:32 AM  
Subject: Bug Report Received

Your bug report has been recorded and your ticket number is #1415926.

On 10/12/2010, you reported:

"Two files I looked at recently were missing metadata - a video log and a Ward debrief, both from Friday."

* * *

Parahuman: Ancillary  
Date: 10/12/2010

Testing Personnel:  
Dr. Lloyd Garvey, Research Lead  
Dr. Elisa Bradley, MD  
Laurel Balfour, Intern

Test Plan:

Introductory power interview with parahuman.

Medical workup and imaging for Ancillary's projection: establish baselines, parity deviations re: anatomical fidelity.

Test Record:

(Summaries follow; see original recordings and transcripts attached to this record)

Interview: Ancillary understands her power as 'making copies of people and swapping places with them'. Has made duplicates of classmates, parents (father and mother).

Interviewer requested demonstration of power, and Ancillary generated a duplicate after a short period of concentration.

Duplicate was taken aside by Dr. Bradley for evaluation; while separated, Ancillary was inattentive and distracted, becoming anxious when the copy vocalized due to a cold stethoscope.

Questioning revealed that Ancillary claims to not experience any kind of sensory link with her duplicate, that her duplicate 'wants what she wants' and 'knows what I know.'

After initial medical evaluation, the duplicate was taken for imaging; Ancillary insisted on being present while imaging was taking place.

Post-imaging, Ancillary demonstrated 'swapping' with her duplicate: no physical markers of change presented, duplicate claimed to be the original and vice versa for approx eight minutes, at which point 'Ancillary' began breaking down and disintegrated. Nine minutes after that, the duplicate began breaking down, revealing Ancillary.

Medical Examination:

Pt presents as an adolescent female.

BP and other physical markers within normal ranges; DTR assessments normal for patellar and plantar reflex. Heart and breathing sounds present.

Physical presentation demonstrates no abnormalities; pt declined blood draw, consented to non-invasive sampling (hair, nails, cheek swab)

Pt was interviewed/given standard conversational cognitive assessment during physical exam. Affect enthusiastic and responsive during conversation.

Pt demonstrated difficulty expressing concepts related to identity: identifies as Ancillary despite appearance as 'Emma', claimed ability to 'be her'.

During imaging, pt responded normally to MRI and scan results revealed no gross physical abnormalities.

Present during 'swap', observations match to those presented in Dr. Garvey's statement; pt/Ancillary did not demonstrate normative response, even as physical anatomy broke down. (nil pain rating when asked to report)

Conclusions:

Ancillary's duplicates are physically indistinguishable from real people, even when examined by an expert.

Get a baseline for the duration of her duplicates - does the 'swap' result in the breakdown, if she doesn't swap do the duplicates last longer?

Further testing re: autonomy: Ancillary was distracted and distressed when separated from her duplicate: this could be indicative of something like Rankine's hypothesis vis-a-vis master minions as comfort objects, but I suspect there's some form of subconscious link between the original and the duplicate.

When samples were opened to be examined, no material was present: test to confirm whether they vanish when the duplicate does.

Future testing should involve psych personnel/assessment: Ancillary became less responsive/distracted, and having someone attending with a better toolkit might get us quicker answers to what's going on.

Get her to copy someone we have a baseline for. so we can get her claims about psychological replication verified. On that note, include PRT Master-Stranger testing and qualified proctor in future testing.

* * *

From: lbalfour@ene.prt.gov  
To: lgarvey@ene.prt.gov  
Date: 10/14/2010, 12:24 PM  
Subject: re: Lab Samples

Dr. Garvey:

According to the lab techs, the samples weren't marked for immediate testing: by the time they got to them, the vials were empty.

I'll schedule Ancillary for another set of draws... tomorrow? And make sure the techs are aware of the importance of flagging them priority.

(Is it just me, or did we have an easier time with the Wards before this one?)

Laurel Balfour, Research Intern

####

From: lbalfour@ene.prt.gov  
To: ksobol@ene.prt.gov  
CC: lgarvey@ene.prt.gov  
Date: 10/15/2010, 8:57 AM  
Subject: Ancillary: Testing with other Wards?

Kirsty:

Just as a heads-up for next week... one thing we're looking at is whether Ancillary has a Trump factor: if her duplicating a parahuman can replicate their powers, in addition to the knowledge she seems to get.

I managed to lure Assault into the lab with cookies, but Ancillary's testing with him was inconclusive; our current hypothesis is that the increased 'personal knowledge' the copy gets is due to Ancillary's familiarity with them.

Since she's been spending a lot of time with the Wards, do you think you could narrow down the ones she's most comfortable with and arrange for them to be around for testing next week?

(if need be, I can repeat the Assault thing... if you give a parahuman a cookie, maybe you get some results ;) )

Laurel Balfour, Research Intern

####

From: lgarvey@ene.prt.gov  
To: building_services@ene.prt.gov  
Date: 10/15/2010, 4:37 PM  
Subject: need key access to locked door  
Flagged: PRIORITY

I need someone to come to lab 3C with a key for the utility closet. My intern's accidentally locked herself inside and I'd like to get her out before the weekend.

Just as a heads-up: there might be a 'creepy baby' present, so whoever you send needs to not have any phobias related to that.

Dr. Lloyd Garvey, ENE Research Lead

####

From: it_autoresponse@ene.prt.gov  
To: lgarvey@ene.prt.gov  
Date: 10/19/2010, 9:03 AM  
Subject: Bug Report Received

Your bug report has been recorded and your ticket number is #1415934.

On 10/19/2010, you reported:

"I need to replace a parahuman's codename in the testing record, but its distributed through multiple files and there's no way to handle that without going through each file and renaming it."

####

From: emalley@ene.prt.gov  
To: lgarvey@ene.prt.gov  
Date: 10/19/2010, 9:22 AM  
Subject: Support Request for Ticket #1415934

Doctor Garvey, you shouldn't be renaming the files at all... those are automatically generated by the database system. Just log into the database and update the name there, and the change automatically happens.

Edward Malley, Technical Support I

####

From: lgarvey@ene.prt.gov  
To: emalley@ene.prt.gov  
Date: 10/19/2010, 9:28 AM  
Subject: re: Support Request for Ticket #1415934

Wait what. What's my login for this database? My intern was handling all the data entry for me, and she's on leave right now.

Dr. Lloyd Garvey, ENE Research Lead

* * *

TESTING FILE: FONT (PRT ENE WARDS)

Currency: Last revision to this file was on 10/19/2020 for reason: changed parahuman's codename.

Font is currently rated as a Master 2/Stranger 4, Mover 3/Changer 2.

Font creates a 'copy' : a projection of another person, that duplicates their appearance (and sometimes their personality, although this is inconsistent and appears to be dependent on how familiar Font is with the individual being duplicated.) Parahumans can be copied, but none of the available evidence suggests the projection can use the original's powers.

These projections can exist for approximately two hours before integrity failure takes place; integrity failure consists of increasing physical fragility, followed by disintegration as the projection becomes inert.

Projections appear to have no range limit that reasonable testing can evoke (as of 10/18/2010, Font was able to maintain a projection at the ENE PRT building while Font herself was at the ENE Protectorate headquarters in Brockton Bay, a distance of approximately fifteen miles).

The projections are autonomous: Font's self-reported during interviews that she has no conscious cognitive or sensory link to her projections.

Font is able to switch places and appearances with her projection. This can be done once per projection, at the cost of dramatically reducing the projection's duration and integrity: after approximately ten minutes, the copy (disguised as the original) exhibits integrity failure, while Font's disguise as the copy fails approximately twenty minutes after switching.

Note that post-switch, Font's physical appearance is identical to the person being copied - this is indicated by her Changer rating. Knowledge the copy has does not appear to be available to Font.

Limitations:

Font appears to be limited to one projection at a time; a projection with a new appearance can be created when the first one expires.

Font's range for switching places with her copy appears to be tied to her projection's range, to which no upper bound has been discovered (see above).

Font is able to create projections of individuals she visually apprehends, whether she sees them at close range, long range, or via a intervening medium such as photography or film.

The projection's fidelity is limited by how Font acquired the original. Physically, the projection is accurate to the original, regardless of the manner of acquisition; whether the individual's personal psychology is available to the projection appears to be a matter of how familiar Font is with them, with projections of individuals she knows well scoring up to a full seventeen on the Rainsford-Sanger MTR, accessing both declarative and procedural memory from the original.

Physical fidelity is limited to anatomy only; projections instantiate with replicas of their clothing and worn equipment, but these replicas are only physically accurate: duplicated chemicals are generally inert, duplicated microelectronics are generally nonfunctional. Replicas lose integrity and decay when the root projection does.

Font does not directly control her projections; they are autonomous and claim to -be- Font. Current hypothesis is that her projections are subconsciously or unconsciously controlled by her; further testing is pending review board approval.

ONGOING TESTING NOTES:

  * Setup logistics for longer-range testing: Van and driver for initial work.
  * What's required for psychological replication? Simple proximity? Font having personal knowledge about them? Interaction?
  * Ongoing physical fidelity testing: Case 53s? Individuals affected by parahuman powers, like that one officer Shrike 'saved' after she got shot. (Dallons?)
  * Functional imaging workups for brain activity and related cognitive panels: How is she controlling her projections? If it's unconscious access, why don't her copies remember like she does? There's possibly some kind of anterograde agnosia going on - we've seen similar deficits in Clockblocker's breaker state with his aphasia.



* * *

From: dsinger@ene.prt.gov  
To: epiggot@ene.prt.gov  
Date: 10/19/2010, 2:11 PM  
Subject: IVR best practices re: new Ward

Director: Looked through the testing reports for your new Ward, Ancillary/Font.

Based on what Dr. Garvey has found and based on our last internal audit, these are probably the guidelines you should be following:

1: She can copy anyone she wants as long as she's seen them, but if she doesn't have access to them, her projection isn't going to know what they know. Make sure she has an approved pool of people: Wards, her handler, and have interaction pass through them rather than introducing her to anyone new who has a security clearance.

2: Access upgrades. Consider passwords and biometrics compromised; it looks like her power doesn't handle microelectronics well, so you're going to want to secure access to sensitive areas and material with multi-factor authentication: possibly RFID, with a preference for smart cards. Idea is putting something in place that can't be easily duplicated.

3: I'd add a cautionary note about having her duplicate villains? We might want to be careful about giving someone who could 'be a villain' clearance or access to sensitive material.

PACS tag analysis came up with some decent matches: Satyrical in Las Vegas, Seir, with some lower correlates to parahumans like Blister and Kudzu.

Assuming she isn't hiding anything significant, we're looking at someone who can play 'find the lady' with us anytime she wants, and the way to beat that is to not play the game. Keep tabs on the original and her projection; control their movements and you negate her mover advantage. Eyes-on protocols and electronics support to negate her stranger mimicry, and the fact that her projections have time limits mean we can use quarantines for access control.

Intelligence is going to be the deciding factor: surveillance on her, give her a tail (double up on staff so they can keep track of her projection, same as her).

We'd have to put in more effort, but it's not impossible.

Devin Singer, Internal Security


End file.
